The Arrangement
by katiac
Summary: Philizabeth-centric look at missed moments correlated with season one episodes and the complicated history that got them there.
1. Chapter 1: Pilot

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Americans_. No copyright infringement intended. Some dialogue taken from the corresponding episode where appropriate. Some adult situations including Elizabeth's rape, but not described graphically.

* * *

**Chapter One: Pilot**

"That's the second time now." Voice low, Philip peered from behind the edge of the curtain. "He's going back in. You got the trunk clean?"

"Yeah." Elizabeth switched off the lamp, trying to make out his face in the dark.

"And the wall?"

"It's dry, but barely." Crossing her arms, she paced to the far side of the room. "I put a coat of paint on Henry's old birdhouse to cover the smell, but it's not going to be enough if he looks closely."

"I'd give him fifteen minutes, tops." Philip brushed past her, a hint of the vodka they'd shared still lingering on his breath. He strode to the closet and pulled out a pair of jeans.

Pausing at the foot of their bed, she stared at his back while he dressed. "What are you going to do?"

"Hopefully nothing." He zipped his fly and met her eyes, holding her gaze a second longer than necessary before slipping from the room.

Watching him go, she frowned and closed her eyes just long enough for the burning to fade. Ever so carefully, she slid a chair over to the window, waiting to make sure there was no sound from Henry or Paige's rooms before sinking into it. The door to the laundry room shut downstairs, the telltale rub of the handle turning something they'd never been able to entirely muffle. Careful to stay behind the wall, she eased the curtain back half a centimeter.

_Nothing._

Stifling a yawn, she rubbed her face. For all the orders they'd carried out in the dead hours of the morning, there was no cure for missing a second night of sleep, all the pots of coffee in the world unable to stave off debilitating grogginess and impairment. Hands began to shake. Aim strayed a fraction of an inch off, judgment slowing just enough to allow the one critical error that would spell their end.

Elizabeth exhaled and shook her head, able to guess from the lines around Philip's eyes he was even more exhausted than her.

_Somehow, he would take care of it._

The surety of that conviction surprised her, and yet she couldn't deny it felt absolutely, unequivocally right. Swallowing, she looked down at her hand, still able to feel the memory of his fingers laced with hers.

Everything between them had been, for the longest time, laced with an undercurrent of tension so pervasive and unyielding neither dared broach it. Little more than strangers when they'd arrived, she'd quickly grown to resent everything from his habit of leaving the kitchen counter littered with crumbs to a wasteful weekend indulgence of waxing the dark blue Pontiac they'd leased from a local dealer. Forced to spend nearly every waking moment together, the idea of sharing his bed served only to add insult to injury.

It was necessary, of course. Training had been thorough as it was absolute, careless slip-ups unallowable. Coached in everything from what brand of peanut butter to buy to how they should decorate their living room in an unremarkably American way, the Centre left nothing to chance.

Their final months were spent in one of many houses built on strange, empty blocks on the outskirts of Gryazi, oddly constructed streets with foreign signs protected from casual view by miles of barbed wire. They rehearsed it all down to the most trivial of details until conversations became choreographed as a dance. Seated together on an uncomfortable, itchy sofa, they practiced just how he'd reach for her hand in a touching moment, the way she'd smile adoringly when he spoke. Knowing looks might've been exchanged at such an obvious pair of newlyweds, but their story wouldn't be questioned.

_No one would suspect it was all a lie._

But even in the most platonic sense, there was something far too intimate about sleeping together, what would inevitably follow never far from her mind. Careful to leave no room for doubt the first night, she gingerly slipped under the covers and balanced herself at the bed's very edge. Arms curled protectively across her chest, she didn't move an inch, stomach knotting tighter with Philip's every movement on the far side of the mattress.

They lay in the dark in a room that had yet to feel familiar, in a house someone else had chosen for them, night after night for the first months, saying nothing, the heat radiating from his back when the covers shifted the only reminder he was still there, silently waiting for the day they both knew had to come.

It was a dictated part of their cover, orders spelled out in no uncertain terms before they left Moscow. She'd nodded without flinching, as had Philip, the task far more straightforward in the abstract than when they were finally alone together in a bed halfway across the world. Silently alarmed to note he seemed less bothered by the idea than she would've preferred, she refused to so much as loosen her robe before the lights were off, careful not to give any sign of encouragement.

He was . . . different than she'd pictured, something she couldn't quite put a finger on unsettling from the start. Not unkind, on occasions far rarer than the litany of attempts she was forced to suffer through, he could even be funny. And certainly quite capable as a partner, even if easily distracted by the trappings of their new life. But as they ate dinner in silence each night in an empty kitchen, she couldn't deny something was absent. A quality difficult to pin down, it was no less obvious he lacked it, every awkward interaction and stilted exchange seeming only to illustrate more plainly they were miles apart.

And as the door to their bedroom shut each night, uneasiness turned to the cold ache of dread. Despite the distance he'd maintained, she knew from looks that lingered too long he'd thought about it, perhaps even pictured it. Looked forward to the day she'd be required to let him use her for sexual release.

Putting it off for months after their arrival, she was finally forced to relent. It was a passionless act. Eyes tightly shut, she didn't move a muscle until Philip finished thrusting, determined not to allow him an ounce of satisfaction in thinking she might've enjoyed it. He exhaled against her neck in a rush, pausing between her legs just long enough for a fleeting twitch to pass from his body to hers before withdrawing. It was the following year before she finally consented to try conceiving Paige, her missed period a silent warning they'd soon have gone too far ever to turn back.

* * *

In the blink of an eye, fifteen years passed.

Paige took her first steps, and a few years later, Henry. There were school plays and hockey games to attend. Lunches to be made and hair to comb. All of it a ruse, their mission and true identities concealed by a carefully constructed web of lies. And slowly but surely, two lives meshed into one.

Much of it was inconsequential. A preference for eggs over pancakes or the irksome habit of forgetting to cap the toothpaste. The scent of his skin after a hot shower. A thousand seemingly trivial details woven together by time until they were irrevocably intertwined, tangled like the roots of a mighty oak.

After a decade and a half, words, once so difficult to find, were no longer needed, a glance across a crowded room or subtle tightening at the corner of a mouth she could've drawn from memory conveying more information than all the books in the world ever could.

She finished his sentences as often as he did, no longer bothered to wait outside the bathroom door with her toothbrush while he showered in the morning. Boundaries once impenetrable had faded one by one as months grew to years, the idea of worrying over him seeing her in her nightgown pointless when they'd been up half the night nursing Henry through yet another earache.

_And still, they were in some ways, absolute strangers._

Nobody would've guessed it to see them together, not even the children they'd raised. But the weight of the arrangement that had for fifteen years gone undiscussed lingered at times when they were alone, something in the way he watched her when he thought she wasn't looking, unnerving. Rebuffing him had become second nature, a cold look or sharply turned shoulder a silent reminder he would be allowed no closer than she deemed necessary, partners and parents, but never anything more.

"Why do you want to kill him so badly?"

The question caught her off guard, a quiet warning she'd slipped, that he'd begun to notice something was off. Lifting her chin, she laced her voice with disdain.

"I want him out of my house. He's putting us all in danger and they're just going to kill him back in Moscow anyway."

Philip shook his head and pushed out of the chair. "I think we should at least try and finish the mission the way it was assigned."

She forced her breathing to slow, luring him almost without trying towards an argument they'd had so many times one could practically recite the other's lines.

"_Now_ you want to complete the mission the way it was assigned? You should've thought of that before, Philip. He shouldn't even be here."

Relief was short-lived. Much to her irritation, he wandered over to her side of the bed and took a seat, casually propping an arm across her lap as if there were any chance she might enjoy having him so close.

Setting her jaw, she looked down, barely listening as he started in on yet another of the jokes she'd never so much as smiled at. It was a battle of wills she held no intention of surrendering, his habit of making light of her every concern having long grown tiresome.

Finally he sighed and mumbled something about waiting to see what happened in the morning, voice losing life when she refused to respond. Satisfied, she snapped off the television and rolled away without bothering to look at him, claiming a silent victory when he awkwardly removed his arm.

She lay awake long after his breathing slowed, a face she hadn't pictured in years forcing itself up from the depths of her mind.

Heart soaring with patriotism, she'd pledged her life to the Motherland at age seventeen, eager to serve, if unprepared for what the process would entail. Training was rigorous, at times brutal. Language classes for six hours a day, the words drilled into her head over and over until she began to dream in English, marksmanship and munitions, hand to hand combat . . . and still, she couldn't get enough, only wanted to soak it up faster.

For what she lacked in size she more than made up in raw devotion, staying late at the gym to perfect every technique they were taught. And when she stayed, so did Yuri.

Her favorite of their trainers, he was tall and fair-haired with strong Slavic features. For months they sparred long after the others left, the two of them alone in the dimly lighted training facility. They'd not dared so much as hint at such a thing aloud, but she could tell from the way he watched her when they paused for water that he found her pretty. And when he grinned and praised her every small victory, she couldn't help but notice the daring tickle in her stomach, the man assigned to train her to kill with her bare hands the closest thing she'd ever imagined to a boyfriend.

Looking back at it later only shamed her, a humiliating reminder of how naïve she'd been not to question the look of guilt that crossed Yuri's face the moment he stepped aside, retreating to the training office in back of the gym to leave her alone for a personal lesson with his superior.

She'd heard of Nikolai Timoshev, of course. They all had, his successes in the field unmatched. A little smug in her abilities, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of pride at such an honor, wondering if Yuri had mentioned her progress, perhaps singled her out among her classmates for special attention.

The first blow caught her off guard. Reeling from the pain, it was when the second doubled her over with seemingly little effort that she recognized Yuri had indulged her pride, gone easy on her all along in the hopes of gaining her favor. Choking and unable to catch her breath, it was a lesson sorely learned as she was pushed to the floor, a wrist twisted up behind her back.

She knew she was beaten. They'd been taught holds, blocks, pressure points, how to subdue an opponent. Ashamed to have been overpowered so easily in the first round, she kicked the mat, pride screaming for a second chance. But to her shock, Timoshev didn't release her, instead got on top of her and pulled down her pants.

Her stomach convulsed. What followed brought fury and a sense of shame so all-encompassing she could barely keep from vomiting. Everything they'd been drilled in-not to lose control, to show no sign of weakness-was lost as he began to violate her on the cold floor of the gym. She grunted an awful, disgusting animal sound, twisted her head up, silently begging Yuri to help her, the fleeting glimmer of hope that swelled in her chest at the thought he might save her all the more crushing when he turned and walked away.

Humiliated once it was over, she didn't dare move until the gym was long empty. Clawing for her pants, she curled into a tiny ball, unable to climb from the floor. Days passed without her notice. Stone-faced, she moved through training in a fog. They never spoke a word of it after that, nor would she deign to look into Yuri's face, hating herself all the more for having been so wrong.

Weeks turned to months. Unable to bring herself to die, she resolved from that moment forth never to be so weak again. She pushed it down to the back of her mind, steeled herself with the knowledge that none of it mattered, not compared to what they were fighting for. And as the years passed, so had the searing anger, hardening into a cold shield so thick no one could ever get to her again.

* * *

A movement across the street caught her eye. Elizabeth quietly inhaled, careful not to cause a flutter in the fabric as she peered around the curtain. Blond hair glinting ghostly and pale in the moonlight, Stan Beeman wandered down the sidewalk in a path that was too deliberately aimless, pulling his hands from his pockets as he made a casual turn towards their garage. Elizabeth clenched her jaw as he knelt to pick the lock, the sight of him breaking into their home enraging her more than she'd expected.

They'd done as much countless times themselves, and far worse. But the knowledge that Paige and Henry slept peacefully just upstairs, a single stray sound away from a world they couldn't imagine, filled her with a different kind of anger.

_It was only by some miracle no one had heard anything the night before. _

Dinner that evening was a tense affair. Barely listening to Henry recite hockey statistics in a thinly veiled attempt to avoid his vegetables, she picked at her food. She rose to clear their plates the second Paige asked to be excused, refusing to look in Philip's direction. Sealing the leftovers in Tupperware, she turned on the spigot and started to scrub, pointedly ignoring him when he reached around her to rinse his dinner glass.

"You still mad?" He murmured it just above the sound of the water.

She glanced over at the table where a forlorn Henry pushed a pile of unwanted green beans around his plate. Frowning, she set her jaw and didn't answer. A hand slid to her back.

"Everything all right?" Softer this time, he moved close enough for his breath to warm her ear.

She closed her eyes and swallowed, hating him all the more for doing it where she couldn't react. Stroking the back of her waist, he drew his fingers slowly just above her belt, the touch light enough to make her skin crawl. There was little doubt what he wanted later, Saturday evenings after the kids were in bed the one time he was ever allowed it.

Gripping the edge of the sink, she shook her head.

"Fine."

"You wanna come?" Finally lifting the hand from her back, he crossed his arms and leaned against the counter. "We could all go-make a night of it. Maybe stop on the way back and pick up-"

"No."

She reached past him for the dish soap. He stared at her for what seemed an eternity, brow furrowed as she continued to pointedly ignore him. At last he sighed and turned to Henry.

"Finish up. We need to leave in five."

Leaning around her, he stuck his glass in the dishwasher. She flinched when their arms brushed, wishing she could stop the sudden, nervous pounding in her chest.

Sometime after midnight, he stirred beside her, sliding from their bed far too carefully. She kept her breathing perfectly even, not moving a muscle as he dressed and slipped from the room. Suspicions confirmed, she counted out a full two minutes before following him to the garage.

"Come on. We don't have much time."

Fury rose, hot and virulent, in her chest upon seeing him standing there, Timoshev freed, some part of her having always known he would one day betray her. The carelessness of his tone was a slap in the face, instructions casually spoken as if the thought of forfeiting a partnership they'd spent fifteen years building and the mission for which she'd sacrificed everything was no more troubling than lying to one of his marks.

"What's going on?"

He jerked at the sound of her voice, eyes quickly hardening in an expression she knew all too well. "I'm taking him to our neighbor."

She didn't bother to look at Timoshev. Wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her upset. Hating Philip more in that moment than she ever had, she balled her hands into fists, barely able to keep them from shaking.

"So you were leaving me."

As she'd expected, he ignored the accusation, eyes narrowing as they faced off.

"I'm going to make a deal," he retorted, the self-assuredness bleeding into every word making the statement all the more infuriating. "One where you don't have to talk to the Americans if you don't want to, if you think that will make you a traitor. But you _will_ come with me and the kids. It won't be exactly what you want, but you'll adjust."

Her blood ran cold, the lack of equivocation in his tone setting off a silent alarm. It was what she'd quietly suspected for years, warned Zhukov he was capable of. His loyalties revealed to be tenuous at best almost from the moment they'd arrived, it was no surprise he'd stoop so low as to sell out everything they'd sworn to defend for the cloying promise of cash and a soft American life.

Not breaking his gaze, she kept her voice deadly even. "So you're just deciding for both of us?"

He shook his head, all pretense of reasoning with her dropped. "Yeah. One of us has to."

"Why you?"

"Because we're running out of time." Face reddening, he practically spat it, the vein on his forehead rising angrily. "Why can't we do this together?"

"Because I am a KGB officer," she shot back, biting off each word. "Don't you understand? After all these years I would go to jail. I would die. I would lose _everything_ before I would betray my country."

Philip stared back at her, forehead creased with what she couldn't quite place as horror or disbelief.

Through with his games, she shook her head and pushed past him. "Now I'm finishing this."

Before Philip could stop her, she elbowed him sharply in the face, knocking him to the ground. Timoshev moved to block her kick, but failed, no match for her speed. Seizing the opportunity, she struck him in the head, blocking, punching, each move gaining momentum as he struggled in vain to find an opening.

The more agile by far, in brute force she was still outmatched. Grabbing her before she could block him, Timoshev slammed her against the car and flung her over a workbench, raising a hand to ward off Philip's attack just as she scrambled to her feet.

_"Philip, don't."_

He froze, staring at her incredulously. Face lined with concern, he shook his head and backed off, eyes narrowing as she turned back to Timoshev and yelled at him to face her.

This time there was no question of superiority. She flew at him with all her might, twenty years of suppressed hatred roaring to life as her fists rained down, each blow a mirror image of what he'd once done to her. Slamming his head back, she took a minute to relish the sight of him reeling, too dazed to orient himself, before spearing him hard in the solar plexus.

Heart racing as she watched him grovel, pitiful and choking on the floor, she allowed him seconds to think he might actually reach the fallen tire iron at her feet before kicking his head viciously through the wall. She yanked him back and threw him against the car. Snatching up the tire iron, she squeezed it in cold fingers, staring down at him in vengeful triumph.

It was the moment she'd waited two decades to realize, Timoshev slumped and defeated, too weak to fight her off, the man who had for years haunted her nightmares nothing more than a broken shell. Absolute in her strength, she took no pains to conceal her satisfaction at their switched positions, wanting only to know he'd felt every ounce of fear and hopelessness she once had in the seconds before she killed him.

But before she could strike, he shook his head, his English poorer than she remembered.

"Sorry. I never meant to hurt you."

Frozen with the iron still gripped in one hand, she stared down at him as he continued.

"They let us have our way with the cadets. It was part of the job. A perk."

The most dismissive of statements, it was delivered indifferently, as if he'd bumped her elbow at dinner rather than for a brutality forced upon her inch by inch, his sickening enjoyment at her lack of power apparent with every rasping grunt he drew from her.

"What are you talking about?"

She flinched, almost having forgotten Philip was there. The question was raw, disbelief bleeding into his tone. She didn't answer when he turned to her and repeated it, unsettled and for the first time, the tiniest bit afraid of what he might do.

Shutting him out, she stared down at Timoshev, knowing she only had seconds to act before Philip would get the weapon from her hand, trade their prisoner for the deal he so badly wanted. Timoshev, she might've been able to best after three days locked in their trunk, but she and Philip had trained together enough times over the years to know there was little chance she could overpower him too.

"How did he hurt you?" Philip demanded again, voice growing more agitated by the second.

Shaking so hard she could barely keep the iron steady, she didn't bother with an answer. Was it possible her superiors could've known, even allowed it? Indulged in a crude accounting of the details after one too many glasses of vodka? Had they decided she was expendable in such a way, her body not just something she would be asked to willingly sacrifice in service to her country, but a bargaining chip to tempt senior officers?

All of them, no better than Yuri.

The strength drained from her limbs. More alone than she'd ever been, none of it seemed to matter any more as the iron clattered forgotten to the floor. She brushed past Philip without bothering to meet his eyes, muttering for him to do with their prisoner as he pleased. Tears blurring her vision, she reached for the doorknob.

The crash that followed sent a jolt through her chest. Whirling at the stairs, she watched in disbelief as Philip threw Timoshev into the garage door and wrapped both hands around his throat.

There was something terrible in his expression that set her heart pounding. Jaw clenched in fury, the veins in his neck were taut as rope, hands shaking with an anger she'd never witnessed.

Before she could draw another breath, there was a muffled crack, the sickening sound of snapped vertebrae sending chills up her spine. Timoshev's body went limp, suspended dead and lifeless for a matter of seconds before Philip let it tumble to the floor. Breathing hard, he turned to her, face lined with worry.

_For her._

She could only stare back at him, unable to move or breathe. Effortlessly, and with terrifying force, walls that had for years been her only protection came crashing down, shattering in a brilliant and frightening rush as their eyes locked. Stripped bare of her defenses, she was suddenly aware of the cool smoothness of cement under her feet, Philip's eyes the only focal point in the room.

Every petty irritation she'd glared at over the years came rushing back. The endless jokes, silly games whenever they went for ice cream, countless invitations to hockey matches and the mall that he knew she would refuse but kept asking nonetheless . . . a lifetime of rejected kindnesses now flooded her with guilt.

Her worst truth and deepest shame, any hint of the anger and condemnation she'd feared was absent as he stared back at her, only worry remaining. Never more utterly naked than in that moment, she wrapped both arms across her chest, sick and shaking at the thought of what he would say.

They didn't move for what seemed an eternity, Philip's breathing gradually quieting as hers threatened to race out of control. Shaking his head, he lowered his eyes and started forward, brushing past her on his way to the laundry room.

"I'll start loading the car."

Never so grateful when he didn't press her, she closed her eyes and nodded, waiting until he was gone to wipe her cheeks.

Her hands shook as she fumbled into her clothes upstairs, fingers struggling with the slim, stubborn zipper of her boots. Taking a breath, she bent down and eased open Philip's nightstand to retrieve the vodka they kept tucked at the back.

She poured just enough to ease her nerves, downing it in the same motion. The burn washed down her throat, familiar, steadying. With a careful glance towards Paige and Henry's rooms, she replaced the bottle, guilt once again creeping in upon catching a whiff of cologne as the door shut.

For all the times she'd pushed him away, that he would ultimately be the one to protect her was a sore, stunning irony, the thought of what it might mean, terrifying.

Elizabeth closed her eyes and pressed one hand to her cheek, unable to think of anything but the way he'd looked at her. Coming abruptly back to her senses when a door closed quietly downstairs, she zipped her boots and crept from the room.

Philip was bent over the trunk when she slipped back into the garage, carefully packing dark glass bottles of acid in foam. Unable to look him in the eye, she tucked her hair behind one ear, stepping over to help him roll Timoshev into the body bag.

He glanced her way once the trunk was shut. "The distributor cap?"

Avoiding his eyes, she shook her head. "In the sack of birdseed."

She smoothed her hair after he brushed past her, giving her nose a final swipe. Stealing a look at him while he crouched down to dig it out, she quickly turned to check the window once he straightened back up.

"You ready?" He said it quietly.

She swallowed and nodded, watching him bend over the engine to replace the part. Expression unreadable, there was a softer undercurrent in his voice that had been absent before, pity or regret she couldn't quite decide.

Licking her lips, she took a breath. "Philip-"

He closed the hood, eyes flicking to hers. As quickly as it had come, her courage waned, something in the way he looked at her sending her stomach into flips.

Shaking her head, she opened the door and scooted across the seat.

* * *

There was a low rumble downstairs. Careful not to move an inch, she held her breath as the garage door was lifted a few feet. Stan rolled out onto their driveway and pocketed a flashlight, taking a cursory look around before crossing the street. She watched in silence as he brushed off his pants and ran a hand through his hair, as cautious slipping into his own house as he'd been breaking into theirs. Brow furrowing slightly, she turned upon hearing Philip at the stairs.

"Philip, what-?"

He shook his head and closed their bedroom door. "Looked over the car. Went in the trunk. It was clean." Yawning, he pulled off his shirt and moved around her to the bathroom.

"What about the-?"

"Didn't go near the wall."

She folded her arms, leaning against the door jamb while he dug in the drawer for the toothpaste. "I don't like this. If he-"

"We're fine." Philip met her eyes in the mirror and stuck the toothbrush in his mouth.

She stared at his back while he brushed, a thousand possibilities racing through her mind.

"He wouldn't have gone in there on a whim," she said after a moment. Tapping her chin, she reasoned it out. "Not just because we drive the same car. Something else made him suspicious . . . either the day we came over or maybe he saw us get in last night. What if he-?"

Lowering his head, Philip spat and turned off the water. "He didn't find anything. What's he gonna do, wake up his buddies down at the FBI and tell them we've got jumper cables and a spare?"

_Always joking_. Ignoring the bait, she met his eyes. "We need to call this in."

He shook his head and lowered his fly, motioning her out of the bathroom.

"You're overreacting."

Setting her jaw, she stepped back so he could close the door and pee. Unable to push the worry from her mind, she crept back over to the window, confirming the lights were still off across the street. The toilet flushed, the bathroom light snapping off a minute later.

Philip came up behind her and tossed his jeans onto the chair. "It's late and we gotta work tomorrow. Let's go to bed."

For once too tired to argue, she made a last check of the Beeman's before turning away from the window. Philip gave his pillow a quick punch and rolled over, breathing slowing almost immediately.

The room suddenly much too dark, Elizabeth rubbed her forehead, unable to clear her mind. She glanced when Philip began snoring, strangely lulled by the comforting rise and fall of his back. Tucking a pillow close to her chest, she curled into a ball at the far side of the bed, their house, as ever, too quiet and empty in the moments before exhaustion finally claimed her.

* * *

**Reviews are like vanilla creme doughnuts...**


	2. Chapter 2: The Clock

**Chapter Two: The Clock**

"Have you seen Mrs. Hamilton's itinerary?"

Philip didn't look up from the computer screen. "Stavos filed it before he left. Top drawer."

"They're both gone?" Elizabeth poked her head out into the main office. Glancing around, she stepped back inside and lowered her voice. "You've got a meeting with Martha later?"

"At seven." He leaned back in his chair, raising an eyebrow. "Sure you're okay taking the bus back?"

"It's fine." She set down her coffee cup and went over to the filing cabinet. Pausing with her fingers wrapped around the handle, she looked down. "So how's it going with her?"

The errant tap of his pen against the desk, a habit about which they'd had no shortage of conversations in years of sharing an office, ceased. She closed her eyes, regretting having asked in the unusual span of seconds that passed before he finally answered.

"Fine."

By tacit agreement, he never asked, nor did she, _How'd it go?_ the extent to which they inquired after the other arrived home late from having worked over a mark. Neatly avoiding unsavory details, it invited only pertinent information to be shared, the memory of being used as a depository for the depraved fantasies of pathetic, weak-minded men something she had absolutely no desire to recount.

_Least of all, for him. _

Not missing he'd spoken a bit too carefully, she gave the drawer a good yank and forced any sign of interest from her voice.

"So, should I save you a plate?" Frowning, she got a better grip on the handle. "Henry's been asking for spaghetti and meatballs."

Philip leaned back in his chair, the quiet groan of leather hinting he'd turned to stare at her back.

"I shouldn't be too late."

Turning to flash him a quick look, she nodded. "Great."

_He wasn't sleeping with her yet_.

Not sure she liked that the information had the power to sour or improve her mood, Elizabeth turned back to the filing cabinet, pulling hard enough to jostle the set of plastic trays they kept on top. The drawer refused to budge.

Philip pushed out of his chair and came up behind her, a hand settling at her back just before he murmured in her ear.

"Need help?"

A touch of wry amusement coloring the question, he reached around her for the handle. Elizabeth tucked her hair behind one ear, the tiniest bit flustered.

"We should've thrown this thing out years ago," she informed him, narrowing her eyes when he smiled. "It's a piece of junk."

Nodding with false solemnity, he slid a hand over hers. "You have to jiggle it."

"Is that right?" She halfway turned, stealing a quick look at his profile.

His lip twitched.

"Mm-hmm."

Owing to a universe that had never fairly favored women, the drawer popped open on the first try. Philip winked. Elizabeth shook her head, fighting to subdue a smile. Something in his eyes softened, the hand resting over hers shifting ever so slightly when she made no move to step away.

She lowered her eyes, unable to keep them from wandering towards his lips. Mouth inches from hers, the scent of aftershave was warm on his neck, sharp and enticingly clean. Neither of them moved. Her heart began to pound, time slowing to a crawl. Not needing to look up to know his eyes hadn't strayed from her face, she swallowed, unable to find the courage to meet them.

Smoothing her hair, she cleared her throat. "So, did you pick up the glue Henry needed for his project?"

He didn't answer immediately, the hand at her back lingering for a few seconds before he stepped away.

"Paige had some she let him borrow."

Nodding a bit too quickly, she found the file and closed the drawer. "No, that's good."

She fiddled with the closest stack of papers until he retreated into the office, fighting a strange mixture of disappointment and relief.

Everything was changing. Equal parts exhilarating and unnerving, a relationship that had for so many years been business and nothing more had slowly begun to evolve, no longer something she could define. There was a softness in his voice when they were alone, tenderness she'd for the longest time never wanted hear and now couldn't help but privately covet.

Little things set her stomach jumping. A stolen glance at the shape of his lips. The warmth of his arms when he drew her close for a hug. None of it new, it was the lightness forming in her chest that was unfamiliar. Far more unsettled by it than she dared allow him to see, feelings that for the better part of two decades had simply failed to form were spiraling out of control. As powerless to stop them as she'd been in preventing their start, she kept any outward display carefully in check, scared to react in a way that might tip her hand.

But in other ways it felt natural as breathing, a long-held weight in her chest, clutched tight out of habit more than comfort, wonderfully lifted. Silly as it was, she couldn't keep her mind from drifting back to the times he'd held her hand, the idle brush of fingers at her wrist the night he'd surprised her with caviar drawing a shiver unworthy of such a simple gesture. It was a ridiculous reaction, something she would've expected from Paige, embarrassing and childish the way her heart began to flutter the moment his fingers laced with hers.

Unable to decide if she wanted him to kiss her, it was after a week turned into two that she couldn't help wondering why he hadn't tried.

"I'm headed out."

Startled, she took a second to compose herself before turning from the file cabinet.

"All right."

Philip shrugged into his coat. Eyes flicking to hers, he hesitated momentarily before flashing his usual quick smile and departing without a word.

Leaning against the nearest desk, Elizabeth shook her head. She waited a full minute before grabbing her purse, snapping off the light to their office and hurrying out the door.

* * *

_"Mom."_ Henry hung his head. "It's _fine_ just like this."

Elizabeth closed her eyes, ignoring his tone. "It's not fine. You misspelled-"

"I'm _tired_."

He slumped over the desk, one elbow skittering dangerously close to the bottle of glue. Grabbing it, she screwed on the top and tapped a finger against the poster board.

"Fix it. Right now."

Henry rubbed his eyes and propped his chin in both hands, mouth drooping noticeably at the corners. Taking a breath, Elizabeth bent down to sweep up the little scraps of construction paper littering his desk before they could end up on the floor, biting back annoyance at the knowledge he would've cooperated without question with Philip.

"Mom, I'm out of cotton balls." Paige, already in pajamas, stuck her head in the door and waved the bottle of hydrogen peroxide. "I have to clean my posts. Can we go to the drugstore?"

"No, I'll get you some from my room." Shaking her head, Elizabeth dropped the paper in the wastebasket and brushed off her hands. "Just a minute. Henry-"

"_That's_ supposed to be the Liberty Bell?" Having walked over to inspect his work, Paige giggled and poked his arm. "It looks more like a mushroom."

_"Shut up." _

Henry pushed her away, sniffing and wiping his eyes.

_"Stop it, _both of you." Grabbing his arm, Elizabeth flashed Paige a warning look and pointed to the door. "Go to your room."

Waiting until a thump registered down the hall, she turned back to Henry. "Finish this up. Your dad will be in to check it before bed."

Philip was seated at the kitchen table when she came downstairs. He glanced up from his spaghetti, nodding in the direction of Henry's room.

"How's it going up there?"

Shaking her head, she shot him a look. He wiped his mouth, starting to rise before she motioned him back.

"It's fine. I dealt with it." Shifting the laundry basket to one hip, she grabbed the week-old dishtowels and nodded towards the counter. "There's chocolate cake, if you want some."

His head popped up. Raising an eyebrow, he nodded, in that moment looking uncannily like Henry had upon receiving the same news. Elizabeth hid a smile and shook her head, backing through the door.

When she emerged from the laundry room some ten minutes later, he was leaning against the counter, polishing off a large piece of cake. Nodding at her, he licked the fork clean and dropped it in the sink.

"It's good."

She tucked both hands in her pockets, wandering closer. "I picked it up from that new bakery over by the post office."

"Hmm."

He turned to rinse the plate. Watching his back, she smoothed her hair.

"So how'd it go?"

He didn't answer right away. Shutting off the faucet, he glanced back at her and reached for a towel. "Would you like some wine?"

Hesitating, she nodded. Philip retrieved glasses from the cabinet. Suddenly a little nervous, she licked her lips, forcing any sign of worry from her face. He took a seat at her side on the sofa, handing her a glass of chardonnay.

"Thank you."

She took a sip, not meeting his eyes. Draping an arm across the back of the couch, Philip checked behind them and lowered his voice.

"FBI doesn't seem any closer to discovering who Robert was. There's no indication he's even on their radar."

Elizabeth nodded, gently rotating her glass. "Maybe this time we get lucky."

He shrugged and took another sip. "It's been a week and a half. Still too early to say. Now that they've given up hope of recovering Timoshev, they're going to start digging deeper."

"Following up on any lead, no matter how crazy," she finished, fingering the bowl of her glass.

"Right."

She closed her eyes and sank back into the cushions.

Philip sighed, reaching for her free hand. "We'll be fine."

Letting her fingers lace with his, she shook her head and looked away. "There's no way to know that."

"Look." He set his glass on the table, scooting closer. "Even if they do find Robert, there's nothing connecting him to us. No common agents. No one they can go after for information."

She nodded. Expression softening, he squeezed her shoulder. Elizabeth looked down, staring at their linked hands. His thumb glided over her index finger in an unhurried motion, tracing her skin so lightly she could barely think straight.

"Philip."

She whispered his name, unable to justify why.

The hand at her shoulder slipped to her cheek, gently tucking her hair behind one ear before touching her chin. Heart thumping, she lifted her eyes to his. He wasn't smiling, face solemn as they stared at one another in silence. Her neck grew warm, pulse racing under the slow stroke of his fingers.

The seconds stretched out. Now certain she wanted him to kiss her, she swallowed and closed her eyes, the intensity of his gaze electrifying. For the better part of a week, the memory of his lips on hers had invaded every private thought, the passion with which they'd kissed,_ made_ _love_, beyond anything she'd imagined them capable of sharing. Barely able to breathe, she lifted her chin.

An echo of something close to concern furrowed his brow, eyes softening in the seconds before he lowered his hand from her cheek. Trying not to let the disappointment show on her face, Elizabeth looked away.

"I told Henry you'd check on him before bed." She said it neutrally, thumb edging back and forth along his.

Fingers continuing their lazy caress, he made no effort to release her hand. She took another sip of wine, drinking in the sensation of his touch as he stared at her profile. Finally rising from the couch, he reached for her glass.

"Hey, buddy. Let's see this project of yours."

Elizabeth took a breath and stood, snapping off the kitchen light and starting the dishwasher before heading upstairs.

For the first time looking forward to what night it was, she brushed her hair out in the mirror, debating a nicer chemise before slipping into one of the plain black tanks she always wore. She stretched out on top of the covers and applied a dab of lotion to her legs, glancing up when Philip closed the door to their bedroom.

"How bad is it?"

He shrugged, making a face.

Elizabeth shook her head. "He does this every time . . . puts it off until the last minute then shuts down when he gets overwhelmed. We can't keep letting him-"

"We've had a few other things going on." Philip sighed and stripped off his shirt. "One of us has been out practically every night for the past week. I don't even remember what time you got in yesterday."

Taking a breath, she rubbed her arms. "It was after one."

Philip unbuttoned his slacks and grabbed a pair of sleep pants from his closet. "Something has to give. It's a fifth grade project. Let's just let it go."

Not answering, Elizabeth tapped her bottom lip, staring off into space while he brushed his teeth. She applied a touch of lip balm when the water shut off, smoothing her hair so it fanned out over her shoulders. Philip emerged, yawning. Stomach giving a nervous little jump when he climbed under the covers, she switched off her lamp just after he did, scooting down lower on the pillows.

He flopped around for a minute, settling down with a grunt. Smiling fondly at the ritual, Elizabeth twisted her hair up off her neck, allowing it to spill over her pillow. She took a breath and licked her lips, waiting for him to roll to her side.

A minute grew to two, anticipation spinning light and giddy in her stomach. Almost able to feel his lips on her throat, she closed her eyes and stretched out under the covers, willing to admit that after a week she was more than ready for it.

The quiet snore from the other side of the bed was unexpected, to say the least. Frowning, she glanced his way, listening to his breathing slowly even out. She sat up and adjusted her pillows, taking no pains to avoid jostling the bed.

He grunted again, flipping over on his back.

"You okay?"

Wondering if he'd forgotten what day it was, she swallowed.

"Fine."

His breathing slowed again, leaving her staring at the ceiling, not remotely close to sleep. Closing her eyes, she hugged a pillow close.

_Sex had become the elephant in the room. _

Their physical relationship had, from its genesis, been fraught with complexities. Terrified at the thought of him touching her, she'd put it off until it could wait no longer, a message from the Centre the following year after insertion requesting an update on their "progress" the final straw.

It wasn't entirely without warning. Expectations were outlined before they'd left Moscow. Two children, conceived as soon as practical after arrival. Preferably the second within eighteen months of the first. A hindrance in the early years, they would later be invaluable in strengthening their cover, the idea of parents incompatible in the minds of their weak-willed hosts with that of spies.

Beyond that, it had been instructed in the most unceremonious of manners and with no hint of equivocation that she would service him regularly. Seeming to sense, much as she had from the start, that his loyalty was less than absolute, the danger he could be seduced in a trap not dissimilar to those they laid wasn't something their superiors had failed to consider.

_And not an allowable risk in their minds when she could easily accommodate his physical needs._

Any qualms she might've had about the idea were simply not among the Centre's considerations. Training had sought to remove any emotion from the act, her body as apt a tool for gathering information as any other. All of it done for a higher purpose, minor personal indignities were meaningless, part of the sacrifice she'd vowed to make in support of the cause.

But with him, it was a personal affront. The only one who knew the truth, he understood with absolute certainty that their life together was a lie, that she wanted nothing more than to lock the door to their bedroom and never have to sleep with him. To have to spread her legs for his pleasure and relief was the most degrading of blows, callously demoting her from partner and fellow officer to whore.

With each passing month, her resentment only grew. Tied in knots every morning when they awkwardly crossed paths on the way to the shower, she could only wonder how long it could be put off before he contacted the Centre, reported her unwillingness to cooperate.

Dreading the thought of a personal message from Zhukov, she'd resolved late one rainy Saturday afternoon to simply get it over with.

"Is everything all right?"

She didn't bother looking at him, aware she'd been jumpy all through dinner.

"Fine."

She downed two glasses of scotch before going upstairs, wanting only to be numb for it. Philip was already in bed, leafing through yet another auto magazine. Unable to look him in the eye, she switched off the lamp and untied her robe, something catching in her throat when she forced the words out.

"I'm ready."

Keeping her eyes averted, she slid under the covers. Philip exhaled, making no move towards her side of the bed.

"You don't," he paused, voice lower, "sound like you want to."

Not even trying to deny it, she swallowed.

"We have to."

Philip shook his head.

"It doesn't matter what the message said . . . we don't _have_ to do this. Maybe we tell the Centre we've been trying and it just hasn't happened yet. You know, the baby."

Elizabeth closed her eyes, the statement less of a surprise than simply the usual disappointment.

"They're orders." Frowning at the lamp, she inclined her chin. "Turn off the light."

Her stomach dropped a foot when he complied. Willing herself not to be sick, she slid off her panties. Worry balled tighter in her gut as she listened to him removing clothes in the dark, unzipping his pants. The bed shifted as he climbed back into it and slowly moved over to her side.

She flinched when the edge of his hand brushed past her knee. Silently condemning the show of weakness, she lifted her chin and forced her breathing to slow.

"Sorry."

He whispered it much too close to her cheek, fingers trailing lightly through her hair. Cringing at the awkward attempt at intimacy, she swallowed and didn't react, not realizing until his breath reached her lips that he intended to kiss her.

It was too much. She quickly turned her head, his lips instead finding the base of her jaw. From there they traveled slowly to her neck, pressing kisses every inch or so in a clumsy attempt to soften her resistance. She didn't say anything when his hand found its way between her legs, fighting back tears as he began to feel over her.

It went on for a full minute before she shook her head, preferring pain to the far too personal creep of fingers as he made a futile attempt to arouse her.

"You should just start."

She managed to say it evenly, keeping the quiver from her voice despite being unable to entirely still it in her chin.

His lips paused at her throat. Sighing, he pushed off the pillows and guided her knees apart, positioning himself between her legs.

The first penetration was the worst, sharp pain followed by a rush of queasiness she'd spent five years trying to forget. Jaw tightly clenched, she didn't utter a sound, her mistake coming only when her fingers dug into the blankets. Philip paused, making her hate him all the more as he stared down at her.

"Am I hurting y-?"

"Just," she shook her head, face burning, "get it over with."

She didn't look at him, couldn't, the quick, contained exhalation that followed betraying she'd wounded him. Starting to thrust, he said nothing more, moving over her silently in the dark until minutes later, it was at last over.

The pain receded to a dull burn once he withdrew, humiliation and anger slower to fade. Thankful the lights were out, she snatched her robe from the floor and fled to the bathroom.

Only once the shower was running did she allow the tears to fall, the spray of hot water covering any sound as it washed away her shame. Refusing to even glance towards him, she crawled back into bed and clutched her pillow, wishing she couldn't still feel him between her legs.

He didn't say anything, nor did she. Back to him, she didn't move a muscle, knew when he quietly swallowed that he wasn't asleep either.

For the better part of the following week, they barely spoke, brief exchanges about mission parameters and dead drops all that was offered from either side. She couldn't look him in the eye, couldn't bear the thought of him seeing how much it upset her to have to sleep with him.

Only as the week came to a close did she reluctantly admit the state of things was unsustainable, the chance their stalemate in communication would eventually lead to mistakes too high to justify merely for her own comfort. Needing a way to establish control, she debated what interval would be acceptable, the thought of him coming to her randomly when he wanted it likely to leave her constantly on edge.

_They needed ground rules. _

Deciding once a week would allow no justification for complaints, the following Saturday she made a special trip to the store to pick up pork chops and shoved a dish of scalloped potatoes in the oven to bake, the closest she could manage to a truce. He didn't come into the kitchen until she turned off the vent fan, hanging back a bit warily in the doorway as if the idea she might've purposefully cooked a dinner he liked spelled a certain attempt at poisoning.

"Did you make the drop?"

Pausing with a forkful of potatoes almost to his mouth, he nodded. "On the way back from my run."

"That's good."

She pushed peas around on her plate, trying to think of something more to say. Philip glanced her way, but offered nothing, taking another bite in silence.

Little headway had been made by the time they were lying in bed hours later, staring at the ceiling, neither asleep.

"We should try again."

He didn't have to ask what she meant.

"Do you want to," he paused, clearly uncomfortable, "be on top? Maybe it would feel better if you controlled how-"

"No," she answered quickly, the thought of having to actively participate even worse than lying there while he took care of things.

He didn't respond at first, finally reaching over to switch off the lamp. Having come to the conclusion it was advantageous to get it over with as swiftly as possible, she didn't object when he lowered his lips to her neck, tolerating the hand working feverishly in the front of her panties, even as it gleaned few results. She counted out five minutes and took a breath, careful to keep her voice even.

"I'm ready."

Mercifully, it was less painful the second time. Finishing without too much of a production, Philip said nothing after rolling off her, his quiet pant of breath gradually slowing as she turned over and slid her panties back on.

He'd been gentle with her, she acknowledged later, a fact she'd counted on and the only thing that made the act bearable each time they were forced to repeat it.

As the years had passed, so had the seconds of sickening fear each time she had to be with a man, the act she performed little different from any other. Sex with Philip became a routine to fulfill, much as with her marks. There was no variation. He came to her once a week, lips brushing her neck in a silent question if it might be allowable, lifted her nightgown if she didn't object.

Time and practice were not without their favors. Though she never allowed him the intimacy of kissing her on the mouth, he was otherwise unrestricted, confidence gained in the beds of other women not unnoticed as their weekly encounters began inching ever closer to seeing her through to completion.

Left agitated, unable to concentrate, and more than a little conflicted the first time he nearly succeeded, she debated for the better part of the week before deciding it was allowable, periodic physical release necessary to avoid distractions getting in the way. Nothing more, despite any inkling of disappointment she might've noted in his eyes after their weekly ritual was complete.

In their years together, she could count on a single hand the number of times they'd skipped it, usually when one of them was sick. But now it seemed the rules had changed.

Unable to sleep, Elizabeth pushed back the covers and reached for her robe. She turned on the kitchen light downstairs and put some tea on to boil, gaze lingering on the vase of roses Philip had gotten her for Valentine's Day. By tradition it was always a small stuffed bear for Paige and candy for Henry, whatever sort of chocolate he happened to be eating by the pound that year.

For her, he left flowers by her place at the table, allowing her simply to enjoy them without the pressure of a reaction. Smiling sadly, she touched the soft edge of one petal.

"You all right?"

She jumped and pressed a hand to her chest, glancing at the doorway. Philip's hair was rumpled, eyes bleary from sleep. Shaking her head, she shot him a rueful look and reached for the teakettle.

"You startled me."

"Yeah, well." He leaned back against the counter and rubbed his face. "Gets to be a habit, you know?"

Nodding, she looked down, fingering the edge of her mug.

"Sure."

He reached around her to the cabinet for an extra cup. "Everything okay?"

"I just couldn't sleep."

Not quite the truth, it was close enough. Taking her hand, Philip gave it a little squeeze.

"You wanna talk about it?"

She shrugged and took a sip of her tea. "Sometimes I just worry, you know?"

"Yeah."

Closing her eyes, she let out a breath. Philip's hand slid to her shoulder, rubbing softly. She glanced towards the window.

"I worry sometimes that with everything that's happened . . ."

She trailed off, unable to finish. Philip waited a moment and set his cup aside.

"Come here."

Eyes falling closed, she let him draw her into his arms, bury her face in his neck. Soap, skin, and the fragrant tang of laundry detergent flooded her. She inhaled softly, in that heady second, never wanting to be anywhere else.

There was a security she'd never allowed herself to want in feeling his chest rise and fall under her cheek, the knowledge that he'd go to any lengths to protect her secretly comforting in a way that went against everything else she believed. Careful to keep her composure once he released her, she looked down, not protesting when he gently smoothed her hair.

"We have to be up in a few hours." His fingers brushed her cheek. "Let's go back to bed."

Nodding, she drained her cup and set it on the dish rack. Upstairs in their room, she slid back beneath the covers, hesitating only briefly before reaching for his hand.

* * *

It wasn't until the night he'd killed Timoshev that she'd ever needed their partnership to mean anything more. Unable to keep from staring as they drove out to dump the body, she searched his profile, memorizing each line and curve of his face as if the answer to why he'd ever done such a thing for her might be written in tiny letters at the edge of his lips.

It was on his mouth that her gaze inevitably settled. They'd kissed before when the occasion required it. Parties. The false weeks of practice that had constituted a 'honeymoon' of sorts. Quick pecks every now and again where the kids might see. Never for any purpose that could've been deemed recreational. But as she stared at his face in the dark, she could think of nothing else.

Their task complete, they climbed into the car without a word. Neither moved once the doors were shut, Philip's hand inching briefly towards the ignition before falling to his lap. He made no attempt to start the car. Staring out the windshield, he finally turned to meet her eyes.

Not for the first time that night, her heart took off, thundering out of control as he stared at her. She couldn't think straight, couldn't focus. Every practical consideration crumbling, nothing remained but the simple, primal truth of wanting him so badly she couldn't breathe.

Trembling hard enough to feel it in her hands, she slid across the seat towards him, for once too shaken to feel embarrassed. Philip didn't move, breathing dangerously shallow where hers was unsteady as if she'd just run for miles. The disbelief in his eyes was palpable, face frozen in an expression she couldn't hope to read.

Ever so carefully, she eased closer, allowing her eyes to fall halfway closed as his breath tickled her lips. Their noses brushed, heat from his chest reaching her a second before their mouths met. His lips were softer than she remembered, fuller, the subtle flavor of chapstick drifting over her tongue as she tentatively kissed him.

Sucking lightly at his bottom lip, she released it after only the briefest contact, testing, waiting to see how he'd react. He hesitated, brow furrowed and breathing almost undetectable as she retreated an inch from his mouth. Seconds stretched out, measured by the erratic racing in her chest before she again leaned forward to meet his lips, the second kiss longer, encouraging.

His jaw softened, tongue barely grazing hers in slow, tempting strokes until at last she had to break for air. Dizzy but aching for his mouth the moment they were parted, she pressed forward, kissing him long and deep. His tongue entered her mouth. Heart pounding out of control, she shakily lifted one knee, needing him closer.

His hands found her waist, warm, strong, steadying her as she slid down his torso and settled just over his hips. Their eyes locked once she was there, his understandably guarded. She didn't break his gaze, fingers skimming slowly over his chest, leaving no question what she wanted. He smoothed her hair back, staring up into her face.

For how many times they'd had sex with eyes averted, it was an alien thing. She'd kept him firmly at bay from the start. The list of rules for what he was and wasn't allowed, exhaustive, his acceptance of such had served as yet another confirmation she held the upper hand, that he wanted more and that she would never, under any circumstances, allow it. That she now craved that from him was the most improbable twist of fate, and yet she couldn't deny the back of her neck tingled at the idea of what it would be like to be with him that way, to have him stare down at her like _that_ while trailing his lips over every inch of her skin, sweeping her away with the force of his passion.

Fingers gentle in brushing back her hair, he kissed her again. She met his eyes, pushing into his zipper as their lips skimmed. His hips shifted beneath her, a lucky pass sending a tremor to the tip of each toe. Shuddering, she wrapped both arms around his neck, knees begging wider until he repeated it. He was hard, painfully so, how badly he wanted to fuck no secret as their tongues met.

Mouths fused, he locked her tight in his arms and guided her back onto the seat. On top of her, he paused, expression for once devoid of any humor. He slowly lowered his mouth to hers. Shaking outright, she slid her hands under his jacket, pushed it off his shoulders. Face slack, he stripped it off, shirt wonderfully tight at his arms as he moved back over her.

She grappled for his belt. It was a need like nothing she'd ever fathomed, dizzying, addictive, the thought of making it home to their bed, unbearable. Kissing her just once, he pulled back, staring down into her eyes. Hands trembling with anticipation, she loosened the buckle and lowered his zipper, felt him stiff and swollen under her fingers. She pushed his briefs out of the way, letting him wrestle her jeans far enough off her hips to get into position.

And then with one deep, tight push, they were joined. She drew a breath, knees shaking. Philip stared down at her, watching her every reaction. He began to move. Eyes falling closed, she let her head tip back, drinking in the tickle of his lips at her chin in the delicious seconds before his mouth closed over hers. Their tongues met, his warm and rough, invading her mouth with a ferocity that made her toes curl.

Gripping his shoulders, she begged him closer, lifting her head from the seat to kiss him hard and deep. Unhurried in his motions, what she once might've complained he lacked in fire was compensated for in endurance. He consumed her at his own pace, hips measured in dictating depth, meting out the satisfying grind of angle, and teasing her with speed. Elizabeth closed her eyes, breathing growing ever more ragged.

Philip panted once they broke for air. Their eyes met. Lips never straying more than an inch from hers, he tasted her chin, glided over her mouth and nuzzled the tip of her nose, bodies lurching together on the seat as her fingers dug into his back.

Seeking his lips, she let her tongue slip back into his mouth, begging in a way she'd never have dared aloud. The cramped space they inhabited began to shrink around her, growing ever tighter and smaller, all lost to her but him. A moan strangled in her throat. Head spinning out of control, she reveled in how close he was, chins bumping at a feverish pace, chest hard above hers, pressed to every inch of her body until the one, most intimate of places where he'd entered, the two of them linked in a silent, private dance.

She gritted her teeth, a tenuous hold on control threatening imminent collapse. Before she could draw another breath, it exploded in a deep, blinding rush.

Her head fell back on the seat. Lips mapped her neck, sucking, tasting the skin of her throat. Gasping, she groaned, unable to stifle it. Philip grunted and stiffened, shoulders tensing under her fingers. Body drawn tight as a bow, he began to shake uncontrollably, breath rough in her ear in the seconds before he forced them together a final time and stilled. His arms went slack, a throbbing pulse palpable through the damp skin of his neck as his forehead sank to her shoulder.

Still panting, he lifted his head, meeting her eyes before pulling out. Elizabeth pushed the hair back off her face and tugged at her jeans, trying to wriggle back into them without kicking him in the head.

Awkwardness entered, for the first time, after they parted and returned to their own sides of the car, the thought of attempting to define what had just happened twisting her stomach into knots. To her relief, Philip said nothing, barely even waited for her to put on her seatbelt before starting the ignition.

They hadn't said a word about it since.

* * *

"Henry, another pancake?"

Still spooning up syrup with his fork, he nodded enthusiastically. Elizabeth deposited the last one on his plate and stuck the griddle in the sink. Philip glanced up from the paper, finishing off the last of his coffee.

"Eat fast. Five minutes and we're out." He stood and grabbed the orange juice, passing over his plate when she stuck out a hand to take it. "Thanks."

"Can you finish up their lunches?"

Brushing past him, she flipped on the water. He got out the jar of peanut butter, touching her shoulder as he reached around her for a knife.

"You feeling better?" He glanced her way, unscrewing the lid.

"Yeah." She said it a little louder than necessary.

Offering him a quick smile, she turned back to scrubbing the empty bowl of batter. They worked in silence. Smearing two slices of bread with thick globs of peanut butter, he licked the knife clean and stuck it in the dishwasher. She shook her head and turned back to the dishes, at a loss to understand how he'd learned to tolerate the texture.

"Okay, two minutes. Teeth and homework." He snapped the latch on Henry's lunchbox and grabbed a bag for Paige. "Time to get a move on."

"But I'm not finished." Henry's lip hovered close to a pout.

"You can take some fruit for the car," Elizabeth answered, not giving him a chance to argue before she took his plate. "Now go get your project."

"C'mon, Henry." Paige pulled on his arm. "I'll help you find everything."

Elizabeth glanced through the doorway as they shuffled upstairs. Grabbing the sponge, she started wiping down the counter. Philip lifted Henry's thermos to safety and screwed on the lid.

"You want leftover spaghetti or ham?" He opened the refrigerator, peering at their choices.

Looking down for a moment, she tucked her hair behind one ear. "Do you want to get lunch out today? Maybe Chinese?"

Regretting asking for a half-second, she was flooded with relief when he smiled.

"Sure."

* * *

**Reviews are like having the neighbor boy look at you like you're _way_ cooler than Pat Benatar . . .**


	3. Chapter 3: Gregory

**Chapter Three: Gregory**

The bump of a drawer woke her. Sunlight peeked through cracks in the curtains, their bedroom cast a muted gold in the rare quiet of early morning. Stretching, Elizabeth rubbed her face, wiping the sleep from her eyes before flipping over.

His side of the bed was empty. Running a hand through her hair, she took a sip of water from the glass on the nightstand and pushed back the covers. She crossed the room quietly, the wood floor cool under her bare feet.

The bathroom door was cracked to let out steam, light filtering in through the window over the tub. Head bent, Philip had his back to her, examining the cut just to the right of his navel. His shirt was off, hair wet and tightly curled from a fresh shower. Leaning against the door jamb, she rubbed her arms, longing forming a hard lump in her chest.

"Hey."

She kept her voice soft.

He didn't answer, shoulders sinking half an inch. Elizabeth licked her lips and stepped to his side, running a hand down his arm.

"Can I see?"

"It's fine," he murmured, reaching for the tube of First-Aid cream.

Gentle, she pushed his hands aside. He didn't fight her, expression unwavering as she rotated him towards the light and bent for a better look. True to his assessment, the wound had nearly healed, the dark red line almost completely scabbed over. She unscrewed the cap and dabbed a thin layer of medication over the scar.

He said nothing, standing rigid as a plank while she tacked on a narrow strip of gauze with butterfly closures. Resting one hand against his stomach, she let her head dip, hair dangling loose against his bare chest. His skin was warm and still damp, smelling lightly of soap.

"There," she whispered, allowing her fingertips to graze the short line of hair above his navel. He stiffened and pushed away from the sink.

"Thanks."

The statement was dead, conveying anything but gratitude. Shaking her head, Elizabeth reached for his arm.

"Philip, wait-"

She stepped between him and the door. He exhaled, looking past her. Whether pain or anger was more prominent in the set of his jaw, she couldn't be sure, the haunted emptiness in his eyes slicing her through.

Lowering her eyes, she touched his chest, at a loss to come up with anything that hadn't already been said. Philip swallowed, muscles tensing under her fingers.

She let her gaze drift over his torso, unable to help noticing the firmness of his stomach, the way his jeans hung on his hips. There was a noticeable bulging at his zipper, the low-backed negligee that had done little to catch his attention the night before clearly having better luck in the morning.

Stepping closer, she licked her lips, making no effort to straighten the thin strap balanced precariously at the edge of her shoulder. Philip's breathing was measured and low, eyes affixed to some point just behind her ear. She moved a second hand to his chest, allowing her fingers to travel slowly downwards.

He caught them just before they reached his waistband, still not looking her in the eye. Moving around her, he went to the closet for a shirt.

She crossed her arms and followed, slowing at the edge of their bed.

"Philip . . ."

She whispered it this time, plaintively. Back to her, he finished dressing, turning halfway once he buckled his belt. Elizabeth touched her neck, wishing he would look at her.

"You can't stay mad forever."

He lowered his head, pain momentarily unmasked in a brief twinge in his cheek. Elizabeth closed her eyes, turning away once he exited the room.

_It was no use._

After their conversation in the kitchen, she'd allowed him space, accepting the truth was still painfully raw. They spent the rest of the day moving around in a fog, exhausted, forced to act anything but for the benefit of Henry and Paige. The act fell once the door to their bedroom shut, fatigue doing little to nurse an injury deeper than any their partnership had known.

A week passed with little sign of improvement. Not precisely ignoring her, it was no less clear he'd walled himself off, repeated attempts on her part to bridge the gap, useless.

He didn't smile unless the kids were there, wouldn't look at her. Turning over the moment they were in bed, she was left to stare at his back after the lights went out, afraid of what he'd do if she reached out to stroke his shoulder.

Worst of all had been the noted loss of any humor. The last thing she would've sworn ever to miss, their house seemed empty and lifeless in its absence. More than once, she'd caught herself privately wishing she might come down to breakfast in the morning to catch him flicking Cheerios across the table at Paige, shrugging innocently while hooking a thumb in Henry's direction.

The familiar dark aroma of coffee greeted her upon entering the kitchen. Philip and Henry were hunched over the sports section and a page of comics, respectively, neither looking up when she entered the room. Hair sticking out in several directions, Henry was still in his pajamas, a particularly ratty set with holes in both elbows she'd had no luck in convincing him to part with, finally coming to the reluctant conclusion there was no competing with Luke Skywalker.

Elizabeth took a breath. "How about blueberry pancakes this morning?"

No one jumped to answer. Philip glanced over at Henry with a raised eyebrow, waiting several seconds for a response before he shrugged.

"That's fine."

She turned away. Tapping her fingers on the counter, she reached into the fridge for the orange juice.

"And bacon?" Henry added hopefully, too distracted to look up from the funnies.

"We're out." She carried the juice to the table and poured him a glass. "What if I made ham and eggs instead?"

Henry's head shot up. "Really?"

"Really." She smiled, combing fingers through his hair.

He squirmed out of the way, eyes practically glued to Garfield and Odie. "_Mom, stop._ It's fine."

She bent to kiss the top of his head, giving his bangs one final swipe. Clearing off the counter, she got out ham and the chopping board.

"Is your sister up?"

Henry shrugged and flipped the page over. "She said her stomach hurt."

Elizabeth looked up, meeting Philip's eyes. He set the paper aside.

"I'll go."

Nodding, she dumped the ham into a bowl and stirred in eggs. He was back a moment later. Elizabeth glanced up, frowning. He shook his head.

"She wants you."

She dried her hands and hurried upstairs. Barely pausing to rap on the door frame, she sank onto the edge of Paige's bed and reached around to feel her forehead.

"Sweetheart, is it your stomach?"

"No," Paige whispered, curling tighter into a ball.

Pausing, Elizabeth smoothed her hair off her forehead, using the edge of the sheet to blot perspiration from the back of her neck.

"Cramps?" She said it softly, smoothing her nightshirt.

Paige nodded.

Squeezing her shoulder, Elizabeth rose from the bed. "Hang on a sec. I'll get you something."

When she returned Paige had flipped the other direction, knees bent and arms wrapped around her midsection. Flashing her a sympathetic smile, Elizabeth passed over two aspirin and a glass of water, bending down to plug in the heating pad.

"Worse than last month?"

Paige downed the pills and shrugged, tucking the pad against her stomach. Elizabeth brushed her hair back and fluffed the pillows.

"Do you want me to bring you some toast?"

She closed her eyes. "I'm not hungry."

"You'll feel better once the aspirin kicks in." She stood and smoothed her skirt, reaching for the water glass. "I'll come up and check on you in a bit."

Going back downstairs, she poured herself a cup of coffee and stirred in cream. Philip glanced up from the sink.

"Everything okay?" He loaded his plate into the dishwasher.

"Yeah." Grateful for the momentary reprieve, she glanced over one shoulder, making sure Henry was out of earshot. "Girl stuff, you know?"

"I figured." He closed the dishwasher and reached for a towel. Turning to grab Henry's glass, he gave it a quick rinse. "Okay, buddy, we gotta get to practice. Go pee."

"I don't have to."

"Do it anyway."

Rinsing out the washcloth, she ran it over the counter. "So his big game is tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah." He shut off the water. Leaning back against the counter, he took a sip of coffee.

Elizabeth fingered her mug and glanced over at him. "What time do you think you'll be back?"

"I'm not sure."

He said it quietly, but absent the anger that had been there before. Looking down, Elizabeth slid a hand across the counter and covered his fingers with hers. Philip swallowed, but didn't move away.

Lifting her chin, she stared at his profile, chest aching at the guardedness in his eyes as though he'd sheltered himself miles away, curled up in a ball of hurt he never wanted her to see. She set her coffee aside and reached up to touch his chin, fingertips tracing the soft cleft in its center before gently sliding to his cheek. Philip closed his eyes, hand tensing where it gripped the counter.

He straightened up when the toilet flushed down the hall, dumping his coffee down the sink. "You ready to go, champ?"

She didn't fight him. Turning to the window so Henry wouldn't see her upset, she flipped on the water.

"Bye, Mom."

"Bye," she called over one shoulder, careful to keep her voice steady.

Philip paused in the doorway, pain etched in every line of his face as he turned back to stare at her. She looked away, uttering not a sound until at last the door shut behind him.

* * *

Their lowest point had come the month before Paige was born. A slow descent into misery, it was difficult looking back later to say whether anything had truly gotten worse, or rather that their unhappiness had simply become harder to ignore. Sick at the thought of what was coming, there was no escape in sight, the baby she'd never wanted sealing her forever to a life that seemed more unbearable by the day.

Only needling her growing sense of dread and desperation was Philip's poorly concealed excitement at the prospect. She'd made no secret of her annoyance at the demeaning way he asked fifteen times a day if she was feeling all right, hovering too close and treating her like a helpless, pregnant cow whose only job it was to safely bear his young.

Falling asleep early one afternoon to the dull patter of rain, she was jerked awake by the sound of banging upstairs. She shifted on the couch, back aching. Something clunked against the floor. Glaring at the ceiling, she rose unsteadily from the cushions and grabbed her water glass.

It took one glance into the kitchen to ball her hands into fists. Flinging the closest dish towel at the mess, she turned and stalked towards the stairs.

_Meticulous in wiping down a room for prints, his convenient inability to notice splatters left on the counter or a pile of stinking dishes in the sink was nothing short of infuriating._

She frowned at the top of the stairs, the dull thump of furniture moving coming from the room next to theirs. A suspicion growing stronger in her mind, she quietly pushed open the door.

He was bent over a half-finished crib, ass sticking out as he groped for the screwdriver. Unused parts were propped against the wall, the floor littered with paper bags overflowing with brightly colored toys and a set of sheets bearing ridiculous, grinning giraffes and monkeys. Inwardly seething, she set her jaw and didn't move an inch.

Philip cursed under his breath and fumbled for a dropped screw, jerking when he noticed her standing silently in the doorway. Their eyes locked, stubborn resignation quickly replacing his initial flash of guilt. He shook his head and rocked back on his heels.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Unable to keep the contempt from her voice, she turned to the large wooden bookshelf that had appeared by the door, picking up one of the pregnancy books he'd for months been less than subtle about leaving out on the coffee table and kitchen counter in the hopes she might find herself lacking for reading material. Sneering, she tossed it back onto the shelf.

He sighed and flipped the screwdriver over in his hand. "Getting things ready."

"Is that right?" She folded her arms.

"Yeah."

Pausing, Elizabeth narrowed her eyes.

"Did you finish coding our report?" she demanded, guessing the answer when he exhaled angrily and looked away.

"It'll get done."

She scoffed, shaking her head.

"The same way you were going to clean up the kitchen after lunch?" she reminded him with a raised eyebrow. "They're expecting us to transmit tonight."

Tossing the instruction manual aside, Philip brushed off his pants and stood. "You know as well as I do we won't get a clear signal in this rain."

"That's convenient."

He shook his head. "I'll get it done."

Picking up one of the large picture books, she flipped open the front cover, frowning at the soft pastel elephants and large, bold type. She blew out her breath and dropped it on the floor.

"We have a job to do. You don't need to be doing _this_."

He threw up a hand, voice losing patience. "_One of us_ has to. This is coming in a month whether _you_ want it to or not."

Hating him all the more, she glared.

"I know that."

"Then, what?" He brushed past her and grabbed a different screwdriver from the toolkit. "You won't do anything to get ready. Won't talk about names, won't let me-"

"You're losing focus."

He stopped, staring back at her.

Not breaking his gaze, she continued. "It's for our cover."

_"It's?"_ He shook his head, expression somehow both incredulous and condescending. "This is our _child_."

"I wish it wasn't."

A truth she had no doubt he already knew, Philip nonetheless looked like he'd been punched in the gut. Breathing hard, he didn't move, staring back at her as she claimed a silent victory. He shook his head, retrieving the instruction manual from the far wall. Watching him, Elizabeth leaned on the bookshelf for support.

"How much did it cost?"

He didn't answer, pointedly ignoring her as he screwed slats into the rails. Setting her jaw, she stooped down to pull a soft, stuffed bear out of the nearest bag.

"We had to get a crib." Philip's back was to her, voice low. "What were you planning to do, have him sleep downstairs next to the circuit breaker box?"

_"Him?"_ she scoffed.

He didn't respond, not taking the bait.

"We don't need all this _stuff_." Stalking across the room, she stared down at him until finally he set the parts aside and rose. "All these books, toys . . . I never-"

She didn't finish, stopping just short of the conversation they'd been expressly forbidden ever to have. Philip sighed and folded his arms, clearly taking her meaning anyway.

"It's how they do things here," he said quietly. "And we're supposed to blend in, not call attention by raising the one little communist on the block. There's nothing wrong with a few-"

"A _few_?" she shot back, the question taking on a note of derision. She gestured at all the bags. "This is ridiculous. You must've bought everything in the store. We don't _need_ all of this."

"Why is it so upsetting to you?" Leaning closer, he narrowed his eyes. "Because you were planning to pretend this wasn't happening until the day we have to go to the hospital? Then have something else to blame me for?"

Ignoring the accusation, she stared up at him. "Because it's wasteful and unnecessary. Look at all of this. We don't _need_ any of it. A toy or two, maybe a couple of books-"

He grunted and looked down, muttering under his breath, "Yeah, you're gonna be a really great mother."

Her hand flew out before she could think. He made no move to block her, barely even flinched when she slapped him. The imprint of her fingers rose red and angry against his cheek. He stared at her in silence, for the first time in the six years since they'd met leaving her afraid of what he might do. Swallowing, she held her ground, refusing to budge until at last the tension in the room became stifling.

Unable to stand the sight of him another second, she turned on her heel, not stopping to get an umbrella or even her coat as she fled out the door.

* * *

"It's not fair." Paige shook her head and set napkins on the table. "Why does all the bad stuff only happen to us?"

Elizabeth turned over one shoulder, shooting her a knowing look. "Because the men aren't strong enough to take it."

Paige smiled at the answer and reached for the silverware. A door shut in the other room. Elizabeth glanced up when Philip entered, hopeful for the half second it took his eyes to harden. Ignoring her, he turned to Paige.

"How are you feeling, honey?"

"Better."

She didn't say anything through dinner, kept her distance when he and Paige set up the chessboard in the living room. He came up to bed sometime after eleven, glancing her way before closing the door. Elizabeth set her book aside.

"You made sure Henry had his toothbrush?"

Philip shrugged and raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, not that there's any hope he'll use it."

He came around to the bed. Back to her, he took off his watch and set it on the nightstand. Elizabeth looked down.

"What is it that you want me to say?"

The silence stretched out. Finally, he shook his head.

"I don't know."

Closing her eyes, she took a breath. "We can't keep going on this way. You knew I wasn't happy. That we weren't getting along."

"Yeah." He pushed off the bed.

She slid from beneath the covers and followed him into the bathroom. "Philip, wait-"

_"What?" _Leaning against the sink, he rubbed his face. "What is it that you want?"

The silence stretched out. She wrapped both arms around her middle, heart thumping nervously.

"Things were . . . starting to change. For us. I don't want this to . . ."

She shook her head, unable to get the words out. Jaw clenched, Philip looked away, hands balling into fists.

"How often?" he asked in a low voice.

Taken aback, she frowned.

"What-?"

He blew out his breath. "How often did you . . . go up there?"

The last thing she'd expected, her stomach dropped like a rock. He turned to stare at her, unflinching, mouth turned down at the corners. She touched her neck.

"Philip-"

He didn't move. Defeated, she ran a hand through her hair, sick at the thought of talking about it.

"I don't know." She cleared her throat, fighting to keep her reactions in check. "Every few months. Maybe a couple times a year."

Philip absorbed the information in silence, jaw twitching spastically. "He said you came to," he closed his eyes, pain twisting his features, "_see him_ back when you were pregnant with Paige. That day we fought. _That's_ where you went."

Chest tight, she looked away. After a moment she nodded.

"So every time you said you had to go up to Philly to meet with him on some assignment, you'd-"

He didn't finish. Elizabeth covered her mouth, fingers shaking. He raked both hands through his hair and stepped around her. She wiped her eyes, watching as he sank onto the bed, head down.

"I'm sorry." She followed as far as the doorway, frustration bleeding into her tone. "How many times do you want me to say it?"

He grunted, not responding. Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she crossed the room and took a tentative seat at his side.

"Back then, you and I couldn't seem to agree on anything. I was . . . I can't even describe how lonely I felt." She took a breath, chin quavering in shame at the memory. "How . . . lost. Some days I wasn't sure I could go through with it."

She stopped short of anything more, unwilling to dredge up long-buried memories that would only hurt him to hear spoken aloud, ugly truths they both already knew.

He shrugged, voice hoarse.

"Yeah, well."

She shook her head.

"When we left Moscow . . . I wasn't prepared for how isolating it would be. We went from the training center where I was surrounded by people I'd known for years . . . mentors, instructors, classmates . . . who were all fighting for the same thing I was . . . to having them bring my mother into a room one final time so we could say goodbye, knowing I'd never . . ."

Philip didn't answer. Elizabeth touched his arm, throat growing tight when he swallowed and wiped his eyes. She'd seen him cry only twice before, the evidence of how profoundly she'd hurt him only solidifying the truth that had grown clearer in her heart with every passing day.

"I know what you're doing," she said in a low voice. "Picturing it over and over again in your head, torturing yourself. How things could've turned out differently for us if only you hadn't done this or that. But that wasn't it. Back then it just . . . you and I weren't-"

"Yeah."

Eyes reddening, he pushed off the bed and strode to the closet to grab the pillow and blanket from the top shelf.

Her voice shook.

"If I could take it back now, I would."

He paused at the door, shoulders slumped with disappointment and fatigue. Back still to her, he shook his head and left her alone in the room.

* * *

The rain had stopped by the time she got off the train from Philly, leaving only a gloomy, gray day in its wake. Feet aching and back sore from hours in an uncomfortable seat, the walk back to their house from the bus stop seemed twice as long as it had the afternoon before. She slowed upon reaching their street, trepidation for the first time setting in at the thought of how he would react, worse still, the unbearable prospect of staying.

And yet, in the end there was no other choice. Personal unhappiness aside, this was her duty, the mission she'd sworn to fulfill without balking.

_Zhukov hadn't chosen her for the most dangerous and crucial of assignments because she was a spineless coward._

Closing her eyes, she gave the accounting of where she'd been a final, silent rehearsal, conscious not to fidget or touch her face. To her ears, the lie sounded flimsy at best, unconvincing, even before recited to someone as thoroughly trained as she'd been to see through untruths. Worse still that their years partnered together had lent him far too much practice at reading her tells.

The Pontiac was parked out in the driveway, hood raised. Steeling herself, she walked the final distance up the sidewalk, not balking when Philip emerged from the garage with an oil pan. He froze in place, a conflict of emotions she couldn't hope to read warring in his expression as they stared back at one another. Without so much as a word, she lifted her chin and continued on to the house, not ceding the high ground.

She paused just inside the door to rest her back, making a grudging note upon glancing into the kitchen that the counter had finally been cleaned.

Only marginally more comfortable after a long shower and fresh clothes, she lay down with a pillow between her knees, desperate to ease the ache in her back. The door shut downstairs, footsteps on the landing shortly following. She closed her eyes, uneager to delve into the previous day's fight.

Much to her relief, he said nothing, merely undressed in silence and started the water running.

After a few minutes it shut off. Philip came out in a towel. Whatever pretense of modesty they'd once maintained apparently over, he tossed it in the hamper and dressed in plain sight.

She shifted on the bed once he was gone, unable to get comfortable. Taking a breath, she pushed unsteadily to her feet. The door down the hall from theirs was shut. Quietly twisting the handle, she slipped inside.

The finished crib stood against one wall, a wooden rocking chair with plump cushions across from it. She ran her fingers over the bookcase, switching on the short, fat lamp atop it. The closet was half-empty, a few of the toys clearly returned, though not the large, stuffed bear greeting her with outstretched arms. Frowning, she picked it up and eased into the chair in its place.

The afternoon light had nearly faded in the room's only window, the glow of the lamp casting lonely shadows against the far wall. Elizabeth closed her eyes and settled back in the chair, for one weak, private, pathetic moment wishing her mother were there. Not for the first time that day, her chin began to quiver, a familiar burn stinging in her nose as tears threatened to form.

Hugging the bear to her chest, she glanced over the row of books and tower of plastic stacked rings, finding it impossible to imagine that in a month's time they might be put to use. She set the bear on an empty shelf and lifted her chin, waiting a moment for her eyes to clear before going downstairs.

He was at the kitchen table, reading. Back to him, she got out a baking dish and placed it on the counter.

"How about chicken tonight?"

A page flipped. He quietly cleared his throat.

"That's fine."

She stuck a can of mushroom soup under the opener, unable to decide if he assumed she'd been with someone else or simply didn't care. Not questioning it, she tossed the lid in the trash and began spreading creamy sauce over the bottom of the pan.

"I'm sorry."

The last thing she'd expected him to say, it served both to unsettle and nudge a tendril of guilt, resentment quick to follow. Shaking her head, she got the chicken out of the fridge.

Philip stood. Crossing his arms, he leaned back against the sink. She didn't look at him.

"Are you tired?" He glanced out the window before turning her way. "I could go pick up some of those noodles you like at the place down on-"

"I'm fine." Shaking her head, she cut him off. After a moment, she closed her eyes and lowered her voice. "I don't need you to baby me."

He stared at her profile in silence, finally nodding.

They said little through dinner, even less once the dishes were washed. She went to bed early, back still aching. Unable to fall asleep by the time Philip came upstairs, she lay still while he got undressed, wary any sign she was awake might invite conversation. He climbed into bed, yawned and switched off his lamp.

The room bathed in darkness, she shifted just slightly. Philip plumped his pillow, the bed bouncing for a handful of seconds. Exhausted, she tried again to get comfortable.

_It was no use. _

Pressing her lips together, she closed her eyes, all the more ashamed when her throat began to tighten.

"Everything okay?"

She licked her lips, taking enough time to ensure the answer would be steady.

"Yeah."

Exhaling, she shifted again. He turned over and pushed up on one elbow.

"Do you need another pillow?"

His voice was softer. Unable to deny the tiniest bit of relief they weren't fighting, she shook her head, trying to stretch out to a better position.

"No, it's my back."

For a moment, he didn't move. Ever so slowly, he scooted closer. A hand slid to the back of her waist. Tensing, she froze, within seconds of ordering him to stop when the edge of his thumb worked its way into a particularly tender spot. She closed her eyes and held her breath.

A second hand joined the first. His fingers were warm, strong but gentle in coaxing the ache from her muscles. Too much time had passed before she thought again to say something, the reluctant admission it felt good for once overriding any protest at his touch.

"Is that the right spot?"

Swallowing, she twisted her hair up off her neck.

"A little lower."

He complied wordlessly, kneading in a gentle motion. Grateful, she allowed the tension to drain from her shoulders, the lulling blanket of grogginess starting to descend. A sharp jab caught her hard in the belly.

Stiffening, she inhaled. Philip froze, voice laced with concern.

"Am I hurting you?"

She shook her head, hands moving slowly across her stomach.

"The baby's kicking."

Not moving for a span of seconds, he went back to rubbing her back, but she didn't fail to note his breathing had changed. Immediately suspecting what he wanted, she pressed her eyes closed, uncertain whether to allow it. He cleared his throat.

"Can I feel?"

She swallowed, the automatic denial that had countered his every attempt to encroach throughout the pregnancy somehow harder to get out. Steadying herself, she gave him a quick nod. A hand slid around to rest just below her navel.

A quiet sigh tickled her neck when the next kick came, fingers rotating ever so slightly in something close to a caress. Cringing, she closed her eyes but didn't react, thankful when his hands returned to the small of her back.

Philip shifted on the mattress, moving closer to work his way along her spine. Drowsiness finally taking hold, she tucked an arm under her pillow, the warmth of his hands through her nightgown the last thing she noted before drifting off.

* * *

Philip had already left to pick up Henry by the time she came downstairs, the house unusually quiet for a Sunday morning. Paige kept her nose in a book through breakfast, barely eating ten bites before her cereal grew soggy.

"I'm going to drop by Henry's game." Elizabeth cleared their bowls, glancing back over one shoulder. "Will you be okay for an hour or two?"

"Sure, Mom." Tone equal parts pity and tolerance, she shook her head and turned the page.

Deciding it wasn't worth the battle, Elizabeth grabbed her purse.

The bus dropped her off a few blocks from the rink, the day unusually windy and cold. Knotting the belt of her coat, she stuck both hands in her pockets. Hockey had always been _their_ domain, an obsession handed down from father to son, and one in which she and Paige had managed to cultivate only a halfhearted interest over the years.

Pushing open the door, she brushed back her hair and surveyed the small crowd in the stands. Philip was seated near the top, surprisingly, alone. Watching him, she leaned against the wall.

From their first steps across the threshold, home had been a painful, empty place. Never a refuge, it served as a constant reminder there would always be an aching void in her life, passion and comfort she could never hope to find forced into a lonely marriage with a strange man.

She'd fled from it, escaped to find understanding in the arms of the one man who saw her just as she'd always seen herself, drew strength from the same convictions to which she'd pledged her life. At the time, it felt more right than anything she'd ever known, the two of them against the world, their discreet meetings bolstering her courage in a period of her life she wasn't sure she could go on.

_"Your marriage ain't real. Your husband ain't real. None of this domestic shit of yours is real."_

Elizabeth swallowed, closing her eyes.

Somehow without her notice, life had changed, a home they'd built for the sake of duty growing fuller by the day. The very thing she'd once sworn never to accept had taken root in a private corner of her heart, Paige, Henry and Philip vital to her in a way Gregory simply couldn't understand, and perhaps, had never wanted to. What was once her only route of escape had become hollow by comparison, incomplete, an empty echo lacking the authenticity of what had had slowly blossomed in its place.

_"Our family comes first."_

At times deeply ashamed for daring to covet such a selfish, personal thing, she couldn't deny from the newfound lightness in her chest that she wanted it, that something had changed, irrevocably, in the way she saw him. No longer the stranger she'd regarded warily so many years ago, he was the man with whom she'd build a home, the transparency of feelings that had once been a source of conflict and discomfort between them affecting her in an entirely different way.

The father of her children and man she trusted with her life, he'd stayed by her side for fifteen years, the two of them alone together in an unfamiliar hell. True to her no matter how many times she pushed him away, that she came unquestionably first spoke of a passion deeper than she'd once allowed herself to want, the force of what he felt for her too powerful to be stopped.

Elizabeth stared at him from across the room, eyes not leaving his face.

It was impossible to determine the precise moment the balance had shifted. Timoshev had been the catalyst, but as she tried to sort through the jumble of emotions plaguing her, she could say with growing certainty, not the cause. It went beyond his willingness to forfeit his own wants in order to avenge what had been done to her, surpassing even that he hadn't hesitated to protect her in the one way she'd long ago been abandoned, his rage at the thought of someone hurting her shocking in its intensity. Rather that in the moment he'd chosen to do so, she'd finally seen what had been there all along.

That he cared for her. Unselfishly. That his loyalty was to _her_ and had never wavered. That no matter what they should've felt or were supposed to mean to one another, something else had formed, a connection that scared her, defied all attempts to temper it, and pounded clearer and stronger in her heart than any feeling she'd ever known.

Philip shook his box of popcorn. Glancing around, he stuck a few kernels in his mouth. She waited until he noticed her there. Locking eyes with him, she climbed into the stands.

He shook his head and grabbed another handful of popcorn, ever measured in his reactions. She took a seat at his side.

"You, at a hockey game?"

"Thought I'd check it out." She inclined her chin. "Popcorn this early in the morning?"

He shrugged.

"Breakfast."

He poked the box in her direction, eyes still on the game. Smiling, she took some and glanced his way.

"So how'd the sleepover go?"

Philip snorted quietly and shook his head. "'Bout the usual. Not much sleeping. Apparently they stayed up all night playing Atari and seeing who could eat the most Cheetos."

She smiled, looking down. "He'll be in a great mood later."

"Yeah, he's a little grouchy." Brushing off his fingers, he reached down for his soda. "And his pajamas are kind of orange."

Elizabeth nodded.

"I'll wash them." She waited a moment, studying his profile while he watched Henry skate. Careful to keep her voice soft, she cleared her throat. "You all right?"

"Yeah." He winced, rubbing the back of his neck. "He said he wants one now for his birthday."

"What, an Atari?" She peered over at him, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. "_He_ does?"

He didn't look at her, but his cheek twitched. Laughing quietly, she reached for another piece of popcorn. Henry shifted his helmet, waving enthusiastically when he saw her in the stands. Waving back, she glanced over at Philip.

"What position did you used to play?"

He shrugged and took another sip of soda. "We weren't ever quite that organized."

"Mmm."

He twisted his neck to one side. Waiting a moment, she drew a hand across the width of his back, fingers finding the tension at the edge of his shoulders. Relieved when he didn't retreat, she pressed gently into the muscle. Philip closed his eyes and swallowed.

"Right there?"

"Mm-hmm."

She moved higher up his neck, rubbing in slow circles. Exhaling, he lowered his head to give her better access. His hair needed cutting, the curls long enough to brush his collar. She smiled fondly, stroking the edge of his hairline. Out of the corner of one eye, she saw his jaw slacken, an unmistakable sign he wanted her touch.

"Remember when you used to do this for me?" Moving a second hand to his shoulders, she glanced back at the game.

He nodded, some of the tension leaving his forehead. "Yeah."

She rubbed for a few more minutes, finally lowering her hands from his back. He reached down to lace their fingers. She scooted closer. They watched the game in silence, the slow stroke of his thumb, calming.

"It was hard for me." Elizabeth closed her eyes. "Being pregnant. With both of them."

He looked over at her but didn't respond. She took a breath.

"With Paige, I felt," she paused, searching for the right words, "Weak . . . powerless. And I couldn't . . . I wasn't ready. But we _had_ to do it. They were orders. We didn't have a choice. But that didn't change that I still felt forced into it. And into all the rest too."

"Yeah."

She looked down. "I took it out on you. I'm sorry."

He stared out at the ice, fingers tightening around hers.

"You weren't the only one who had doubts." He said it softly. "Who was lonely. You weren't the only one who gave things up."

Frowning, she shook her head. "I know. You must've-"

"I had a girlfriend, before."

Caught off guard, she tucked her hair behind one ear. "Just the one?"

He cleared his throat. "Yeah."

She pretended to watch the game, careful to keep her tone neutral. "And she . . . did you love her?"

The moment of hesitation betrayed the answer before it came. Unsettled by an unfamiliar squeezing in her chest, she lifted her chin.

"Yeah."

She absorbed the information in silence, not sure how it made her feel. He turned back to the game. Looking down a moment later, she shook her head.

"That day I left . . . I was convinced I couldn't do it." She closed her eyes when he glanced her way. "Go through with our assignment. But then the moment I held Paige . . . everything changed, you know?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know why things . . . went so wrong for us." She traced his thumb. "You know, back then. But . . . I know I'm not sorry they changed."

He stared down at their linked hands. Elizabeth frowned.

"Do you think we could just . . . start over?"

She turned to face him. His eyes had softened, the pale blue-gray she'd always rather wished Paige or Henry might've inherited clear as day, lacking any trace of reservation as he slowly nodded.

"Yes."

* * *

Pain was all relative, or so they were taught, able to be overlooked by someone strong enough of conviction.

At times there was no other choice, an injury suffered in the heat of battle leaving no option but to fight on or risk capture and death, the latter the most devastating of failures, the former promising far worse in its aftermath. Pain could be calculated, meted out blow by blow in order to break the spirit, the only guarantee that it would never stop until the moment selfish greed outweighed devotion. But in some instances, it was simply an unfortunate inconvenience to be endured.

Gritting her teeth, Elizabeth tucked her chin and gripped the edge of the blanket, every ounce of her strength focused on not crying out. It took a full minute for the contraction to pass. Cold and shaking, she fell back onto the bed, the pillows already soaked in perspiration.

A damp washcloth blotted her forehead, offering the briefest reprieve. Swallowing, she opened her eyes. Philip's face was lined with worry, hair tousled and shirt sloppily untucked after hours spent pacing the seedy motel room.

"Water?" he asked quietly, reaching for the cup when she nodded.

Her fingers shook almost too hard to take it. Allowing him to prop up her shoulders, she took a sip and sank back against the pillows.

"My feet are cold again," she whispered, trying for what seemed like the hundredth time to resituate herself more comfortably on the tired mattress.

Philip hurried over to their bags. Breathing hard, she closed her eyes. Another contraction started. She strangled a groan, body wracked with pain. The latch popped on her suitcase, something spilling noisily across the floor.

_"Shit."_

Forcing herself to focus through the pain, Elizabeth gripped the closest pillow, vowing to later kill him if he'd broken anything in her makeup kit. Philip stared down at her, eyes wide and face white as a sheet. He dropped the socks on the end of the bed and glanced at his watch.

"How long since the last one?"

"Two minutes." The reply from the other end of the room was thickly accented, but practically indifferent. A newspaper rustled. "Is almost time."

Unable to respond at the risk of crying out, Elizabeth let her head fall back. Philip waited until the contraction passed to roll on one sock and then the other. Returning to the chair at her side, he drew the washcloth over her face and neck.

"Back?" His voice was businesslike.

Nodding, she rolled to one side. Philip began to work at the usual spot. She closed her eyes, pushing sweaty strands of hair away from her neck.

"Lower?"

She rubbed her forehead, struck by a sudden flash of gratitude that he hadn't tried to coddle her with empty promises everything would be okay or condescending reminders she was strong enough. Taking a few deep breaths, she twisted her hair up into a knot.

"No, right there."

Half a dozen contractions later, the doctor went to the bathroom to wash his hands. Elizabeth scooted up against the pillows, shaking from head to toe. Not uttering a word, Philip vacated the chair. She glanced over at him, unable to remember the last time she'd seen him eat anything. Meeting her eyes, he stepped off to the side as the doctor returned to examine her.

She studied the tacky artwork hanging on the far wall, stomach tightly knotted until at last he stepped away.

"Is time." He wagged a finger at her. "Do not push."

Rising, Philip turned to her.

"You ready?"

Forcing any sign of fear from her voice, she frowned and nodded. "Yeah. Did you get everything?"

"It's all packed. I'll load the car, come back and sweep the room. Do you need to use the toilet?"

"Yeah."

He helped her out of bed, keeping a hand close to her arm as she crept unsteadily to the bathroom. She emerged minutes later. Grimacing, she stuck an arm into the robe Philip held out for her.

"Everything's in the trunk. Heater's running." He helped her over to the bed and went to wipe down the bathroom.

"Did he leave?" She glanced towards the window.

"Mm-hmm."

"He was strange."

"Yeah, a little."

Philip threw the last towel in the duffel and zipped it. She gripped his hand, carefully making her way out of the motel room and down to the car.

The highway was dark and mostly empty, intermittent flashes of light from streetlamps washing across the backseat as she tried to keep from pushing. Philip pulled into the parking lot and glanced back at her. Unable to speak through a blinding wall of pain, she clenched her teeth. Tears formed in her eyes. Setting the brake, he leaned over the seat.

"Are you-?"

"I think the baby's coming." She halfway grunted it. Taking shallow breaths, she let her head fall back. "You have to make sure they . . . don't let them give me-"

"I'll take care of it," he muttered, a subtle reminder it was at least the tenth time she'd brought it up. He pocketed the keys, voice softening. "Just like we agreed."

Meeting his eyes, she nodded. He pushed the door open, a wave of icy air hitting her before it slammed shut.

Not insurmountable, the particulars of their situation had required careful planning. Needing the birth to occur in one of the local hospitals to avoid any particular scrutiny being given to the paperwork, they'd had to contend with the risk her English might inadvertently slip if she was put under sedation.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, her mother's face swimming hazily in her mind. As one year turned to two she'd begun to notice her memory slipping, the image she could conjure indistinct and fleeting. Thousands of miles apart in both body and spirit, it was as though they stared at one another through a pane of thick glass, the likeness familiar enough even as she longed to glimpse the clarity in her eyes, the quiet strength exuded in ramrod straight posture and the uncompromising set of her jaw.

A tear trickled down the edge of her nose. Quickly wiping it, she gripped the seat as another contraction threatened to rip her in two. From somewhere in the distance, she caught Philip's voice, flavored with a note of guileless panic.

"-and she's allergic to . . . oh _God_, I can't even remember the name. Our doctor went down to Florida for the weekend. He said he was just going to have to deliver without anything-"

The door was thrust open. Gasping for breath, she fell back on the seat, limp as a rag as strange, cold hands pushed her nightgown out of the way.

"Is she okay? What should I-?"

"Help me get her into the wheelchair," the nurse directed, gesturing. "Honey, you've got to come towards me now."

Elizabeth gritted her teeth, inching her way across the seat as Philip came around to help her from the other side.

* * *

It was Zhukov who'd once told her strength was merely a measure of devotion. That the most daunting of tasks served to show the bearer the depths of their own fortitude. It was his voice she clung to in the moments her courage wavered . . . and her mother's face. Calm and sure, she stared down at her, never doubting for a second that her _Nadya_ would persevere, much as _she_ had in the same task some two and a half decades before.

She lost track of time long before it was over. Collapsing back on the delivery table at the first gurgling cry, she was informed she'd had a girl, the baby whisked off to the nursery before she could get so much as a look. Exhausted, she was shortly wheeled into a private room, a tiny bundle with a soft pink hat brought in by one of the nurses.

"Here you go." Smiling, the plump, older woman placed the baby in her arms. "Your husband is just about beside himself. I think he's shaken hands with everyone in the waiting room . . ."

Elizabeth barely heard her.

Face pink and perfectly clear, she had two delicate wisps for eyebrows, the smallest fingers imaginable curled into two miniature fists. Not precisely favoring either her or Philip more than the other, she could see him in her ears and the shape of her eyes, the familiar curve of her own mouth in tiny, rosy lips. But it was the recognition from where she'd inherited the strong, straight nose and finely shaped chin that drew tears to her eyes.

Distractedly wiping them, Elizabeth smoothed a wrinkle in the blanket, almost afraid to peek under the cap to see if she had any hair. The door handle quietly twisted.

Philip met her eyes. Hurrying over to the bed, he sat down ever so carefully on the edge, leaning closer to tuck back one corner of the blanket. He sighed in a quiet rush, the single, tentative finger that reached out to touch the back of the baby's hand dwarfing it.

Sniffing, Elizabeth wiped her nose on the back of her wrist. She carefully drew one fingertip along the velvety skin of her cheek, pulling back in surprise at the unexpected yawn that followed. Philip swallowed, voice breaking.

"She's . . . beautiful." He cleared his throat. "Paige?"

Distracted, Elizabeth nodded. Philip dug one finger under the edge of the blanket, reverently stroking Paige's tiny arm.

"Be careful." She frowned. "You're going to wake her up."

He didn't answer. Reluctantly appeased when Paige didn't stir, Elizabeth edged back the tiny hat, noting only a fine, wispy layer of hair.

She glanced at Philip. "Do you want to hold her?"

He bent closer to lift Paige from her arms as delicately as if they were handling explosives. Elizabeth pushed her hair behind one ear, leaning forward. Philip's breathing grew labored, something changing in his face.

"I didn't . . . think she'd be this small."

He wiped his eyes. Elizabeth looked away, realizing in that moment she'd never seen him cry. She stared down at Paige, the last thing she'd expected to feel clawing its way through her chest.

"We can't ever tell her."

Philip lifted his head. Looking him in the eye, she continued.

"About us. Why we're here." She shook her head. "About any of it. I don't want her to ever be a part of this."

He stared back at her.

_"Promise me."_

Nodding, Philip reached for her hand. She let him take it, their eyes locked.

"Swear it," she repeated, fingers tightening in his.

His thumb slowly traced the back of her knuckles. "I promise."

Leaning back against the pillows, she reached out to take Paige. Philip set her carefully in her arms, propping an arm across her lap for a better view. Glancing towards the door, Elizabeth lowered her voice.

"You were good," she said after a moment, offering a half smile when he glanced up. "As the panicked father." Pausing, she looked down. "I was glad you were there."

Philip made a face, cheek twitching.

"I was only half pretending. Towards the end there, I was starting to think we should've left a few minutes earlier."

"Mm-hmm."

Her stomach growled. He raised an eyebrow and checked his watch. "Six-thirty. You want me to go get you a doughnut?"

Only briefly tempted to refuse, she nodded. "And coffee."

"Sure."

Bending down, he pressed a single, soft kiss to Paige's forehead, smiling foolishly before grabbing his coat from the chair. He shrugged into it and stepped into the hall, quietly closing the door.

"Vanilla crème," she called after him in a whisper, glancing down worriedly when Paige stirred.

He poked his head back through the doorway and winked at her.

"I know."

* * *

"Okay, guys, teeth and bed."

Philip retrieved the checkers box from under the table, steadying it for Henry to knock a lopsided tower of captured pieces inside. Managing to catch most of them, he grabbed the one stray before it could roll under the chair.

"Ker-pow!" Henry threw himself onto the couch in a heap, squirming to the floor when Philip tickled him.

_"Teeth,"_ he growled, failing to look truly menacing.

Smiling, Elizabeth reached for their glasses and nodded to Paige. "You get the plates."

Paige dumped the crumbs in the trash and brushed off her hands. Glancing over at her, Elizabeth squeezed soap onto the sponge.

"Feeling better today?"

"Yeah, I guess." She shrugged and got a clean dishtowel from the drawer. "I wish it didn't have to happen every month."

Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully, handing her the first glass to dry.

"You'll get used to it."

Paige didn't answer, taking more time than was necessary in putting the glass away.

"Mom, you know Matthew?"

She practically blurted it, voice rising in pitch at the end. Careful not to react, Elizabeth handed over the next glass.

"From across the street?"

Not looking at her, Paige fidgeted with the towel. "I think . . . maybe I like him."

"I see." She handed her the last glass and rinsed out the sponge. "And what is it that you like about him?"

Paige shrugged, cheeks burning. "I don't know. I just . . . _like_ him, you know?"

"Right."

Trying not to frown, she managed at the last moment to turn the expression into a quizzical smile. Paige put the glass away, wiping her hands before hurrying from the room. Staring after her for a moment, Elizabeth headed upstairs.

"'Night."

Philip turned off the light and closed the door to Henry's room. Offering him a half smile, she slipped by. He was seated on the edge of the bed when she came out of the bathroom, sliding into his shoes.

"Paige okay?"

"Yeah." She paused at the dresser to take off her earrings, raising an eyebrow at him in the mirror. "I think she may have a little crush."

She inclined her head towards the street. Philip frowned.

"The Beeman kid?" Standing, he wrinkled his nose. "You sure?"

"She told me." Shrugging, she set the earrings in her jewelry box and smoothed her hair back.

"Well, that complicates things."

"Yeah." Taking a breath, she looked down. "I think we should take the afternoon off tomorrow."

Philip glanced up, brow furrowed. "What, for the conference over on-"

She lifted her chin, forcing the rest out before she could lose the nerve. "I got us a room. At the Willard Hotel downtown."

Halfway into his coat, he froze. She stared back at him, stomach jumping nervously. For all the things she'd done in the name of patriotism, brazenly seducing more men than she could count, it was only with him that she'd ever felt completely and utterly bare, unable to cloak it in an act.

Eyes softening, Philip slowly nodded.

"What time?"

"I thought noon." Voice growing steadier, she ran one hand over the bed rails. "Will you come?"

His eyes didn't leave hers.

"Yes."

She took a step forward, sliding her hands into his. For a moment, neither of them moved. Slowly tracing the back of her fingers, Philip reached up to tuck her hair behind one ear. Swallowing, she met his eyes, heart pounding almost out of control as he drew her into his arms.

Snug against his chest, she exhaled. Philip's hands circled slowly at her back, lips warm where they brushed her forehead. Fingers shaking, she touched the button at the top of his shirt, carefully unfastening it. He didn't move, the rise and fall of his chest deep and steady as she pressed a kiss to the base of his throat.

He shuddered, the fingers trailing through her hair momentarily hitching. Lowering her head, she repeated it, lips picking up the flutter of his pulse through the warm skin of his neck. He gripped her shoulders, voice the slightest bit rough.

"I have to go."

She let her lips hover a breath from his skin just a second longer. Raising her eyes to meet his, she slid both hands down his chest. Philip touched her cheek, holding her gaze for a long moment before turning for the door.

* * *

**Reviews are like a game of driveway hockey that gets you out of brushing your teeth…**


	4. Chapter 4: In Control

**Chapter Four: In Control**

The morning they were due to sit for a family photograph, war broke out in the Jennings household.

A comparatively peaceful Sunday, Henry had just gotten out two glasses and the square metal canister of Quik when a drawer slammed upstairs. Father and son glanced at the ceiling. Unfazed, Henry closed the heavy fridge door and skated across the floor in his socks. Philip frowned and set the paper aside, reaching over to rescue the milk carton before it could get dropped.

"I'll pour. You stir."

Henry popped the lid off the chocolate and craned to check the doorway before turning back to him. He leaned closer to whisper, eyes hopeful.

"Two spoons?"

Philip winked. Henry grinned and measured them each out a generous helping, sloshing milk enthusiastically against the side of the glass while he stirred. Accepting his, Philip clinked their glasses, took a gulp and shook out the classifieds.

Muffled voices registered from upstairs, a frustrated whine from Paige quickly answered by a shorter, sharper retort. Philip shook his head and flipped the page, catching vague snippets of an argument about hair and coordinating outfits. Oblivious, Henry twirled a straw through his milk, leaning down to blow bubbles.

"Hey."

Clumps of chocolate powder dotting his lip, Henry looked up. Philip lowered his voice.

"Whatever she lays out for you, just put it on." He made a face and nodded towards the ceiling, hooking a thumb between them. "You and I don't care anyway, right?"

Henry shrugged. Brow furrowed, he spun his straw around the glass, slurping up chocolate bubbles. Footsteps clomped on the stairs. Paige appeared in the doorway a few seconds later and marched over to the table.

"Hey, sweetie-"

"Dad, does this look all right?" She lifted her chin and crossed her arms, in that moment bearing a remarkable resemblance to her mother. "Can I wear it?"

Frowning, Philip eyed the blouse and pants, failing to find anything particularly objectionable. _A fact which would matter little if he dared say so_. He tilted his head and wrinkled his nose.

"What'd Mom say?"

Lip quivering in obvious frustration, Paige let out a huffy sigh and turned on her heel. Philip took another swig of chocolate milk and poked around for the sports section. Elizabeth's voice traveled from the foyer.

"Go put on that sweater I bought you, the one you said you _had_ to have."

She stormed into the kitchen, hair up in rollers. Freezing just inside the door, she set her jaw, grabbed the milk off the table and stuck it back in the fridge. Philip glanced up, not missing the look she shot him.

Folding the paper, he reached for Henry's glass. "C'mon, bud. Time to get dressed."

"But I'm not done-"

"The appointment's in an hour." Elizabeth snatched both glasses from him, frowning at the thick layer of chocolate sediment skulking at the bottom.

Clearing his throat, Philip popped the lid back on the Quik. He rose from the table, stuck it in the cabinet and followed her to the sink. Running a hand softly along the back of her waist, he bent to kiss the small freckle on her bare shoulder.

"Sorry."

Elizabeth shook her head, voice lower. "Paige is being impossible. You're both still in your pajamas. Henry's covered in chocolate and I just finished pressing his clothes. If he gets them dirty-"

Philip reached around her and flipped on the water. "You go finish getting ready. I'll take care of it."

She rinsed the glasses a final time and stuck them on the rack. Giving him another pointed look, she shut off the spigot.

"Your clothes are out on the bed."

Lifting her chin, she exited the room without a word. Philip grunted under his breath, but didn't respond, finally pushing away from the counter.

_They were even._

He was dressed by the time she emerged from the bathroom. Hair floating around her face in soft waves, she hurried over to straighten his collar. He sighed, reaching up to rub her arms.

"It'll be fine."

She glanced up at him, expression softening just a little. "Is Henry dressed?"

"And waiting on the couch with strict instructions not to move or we won't stop for ice cream on the way home."

Unfastening a button, Elizabeth shook her head. "_Ice cream?_ There was enough chocolate mix in that milk to keep him bouncing off the walls all afternoon. The last thing-"

"I'll take him down to the park later," he interrupted softly, waiting until she met his eyes. "Let him run it off."

She nodded, finishing with his collar and giving his sweater a quick brush at the shoulders and chest. Philip studied her face, eyes drifting to the edge of her lips.

"You look nice."

Turning to grab her purse off the bed, she raised an eyebrow. "Ready?"

The sitting itself went without incident. Clearly pleased with how the photos turned out, Elizabeth hung the family portrait in their bedroom, framing a smaller copy for the bookshelf by the fireplace, and at his request, one for his desk at the office.

Henry, being Henry, had grinned into the camera, unabashed. Paige's expression was less certain, the quiet insecurities of adolescence that had recently begun to emerge evident in a smile self-conscious enough to seem forced.

At his left and their family's center was Elizabeth. None of them slouching, her posture was a fraction straighter, the soft, dark red sweater and ribbon knotted at her throat unable to mask the steel of her resolve. Somehow ever graceful whether assembling a row of peanut butter sandwiches or helping him bury a cache of ammunition, with her hair cascading softly over one shoulder and a slight smile at her lips, she made the breath catch in his throat.

Only looking at it later could he see the guardedness in her eyes, that even as she sat surrounded by the three of them, she was somewhere else, miles away.

Initially warmed by the normality of it all, it was after a week passed that he recognized disquiet had begun to set in, its source the last thing he would've expected. It was there in the innocence of Henry's shrug as they drank chocolate milk together on a lazy morning. It lurked in the shadows of a home held up by walls bearing tiny handprints pressed into plaster molds, and a refrigerator covered in cherished, scribbled drawings, their subjects barely identifiable as duck or horse. And most of all it stared back at him in Paige's nervous smile, her largest concern which sweater would look best, neither she nor Henry having any idea how close they came, every day, to having it all snatched away.

Everything had changed.

A truth they'd pushed down in their minds from the start, too guilty to dwell on it for long, the bleakness of their future could no longer be ignored. It would take one mistake. A call traced. A source discovered and turned. A tail missed after one too many sleepless nights. Caution and skill notwithstanding, they couldn't eliminate the danger one of them would eventually be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

She would be taken from him, the last image he would ever have of her being forced to the ground, a knee smashed into her back as handcuffs were snapped on. Thrown in a cell far from anyone squeamish enough to object to method, they would work her slowly, what would be done in an attempt to extract information sickening for him to picture. She would sooner die than break, he knew, a truth that was of little comfort in light of the knowledge there would be no end for her, no reprieve. The soft, freckled shoulder he watched rise and fall as she curled beside him in bed each night would be bloodied, bruised, her face frozen in a dead mask of pain.

It was the choice they'd made, a mission not only agreed to, but asked for, both of them fully understanding the risks. The same could not be said of the two innocent lives they'd doomed to the same fate.

Their most selfish act, what had been comparatively simple to consent to when the idea of children was a vague, hypothetical notion had come to haunt him far more than anything they'd ever done. Created not due to a shared love or even an accident on a night of sloppy, drunken passion, Paige and Henry's very existence had been orchestrated by a meeting of officers back in Moscow, purposefully calculated that they might be used as a shield.

Their end would be worst of all. Whether they watched him and Elizabeth dragged away or tentatively answered a late night knock at the door from an FBI officer, Henry peeking out from the shadow of Paige's elbow, eyes wide and dark, the truth would destroy them, any happy memories of the childhood they'd known shattered by the magnitude of lies lovingly whispered every night since their birth.

The image of it followed him, day and night, solidifying the feeling growing stronger in his gut with each passing day, every joke parried across the dinner table and impulsive hug thrown around his waist before school scoring a vague and distant oath he'd sworn at eighteen with unmistakable signs of fracture.

* * *

The last time he saw Moscow was early on a July morning. Low clouds blanketed the city in a quiet sunrise of gray and gold, a final glimpse of its familiar smokestacks and spires hard to make out in the distance. He and Elizabeth left on separate flights, arriving in West Germany days apart on falsified passports.

"Thank you."

Glancing around the hotel entryway, Philip tucked the newspaper under one arm and stuck both hands in his pockets. The morning was cool and overcast, rain dripping off awnings and tree branches after a round of overnight storms. With a quick check of the street, he headed east towards the park.

Frankfurt was louder than he'd expected, its streets crowded with motorists and pedestrians. Construction crews were at work on every other block, apartment buildings and tall, modern glass towers going up at the city's center. Much of it clearly rebuilt after the war, it was somehow . . . _brighter_ than descriptions had managed to convey, the marketplace packed with stands selling fat rounds of cheese and row upon row of produce. Much of the fruit he'd never seen outside of pictures, the selection of vegetables and meat equally impressive. Heavy planters of flowers and fresh crisp curtains hung outside shop windows, everything about the place suggesting a level of prosperity hard to imagine.

But most surprising were all the cars. Starting just down the street from his hotel, a line of Volkswagens, Saabs and Fiats hugged the curb, so many it seemed improbable. They'd trained on various models in Gryazi, under careful supervision learning to strip each one down to parts, then to disable or start them using only the wires below the ignition.

Suppressing a smile, Philip shook his head.

_He could do it in thirty seconds flat._

Quickly mastering the mechanics, the real fun had come in learning driving tactics. Nothing compared to the rush of racing at high speeds through the training courses, learning to execute tight turns as he avoided obstacles and evaded pursuers. He practiced it again and again until he could make it through the course without knocking over a single marker post, shifting gears at the end and repeating the track in reverse. He'd come in at the top of his class, earning a commendation as well as a personal congratulation from General Zhukov.

Philip paused at the corner, craning to get a better look at a Mercedes-Benz as it drove past.

_They'd be expected to get one for their own use once they got to the States. Something large and American, maybe even with a convertible top. _

Taking advantage of the excuse to glance both ways at the street, he crossed into the park. So early in the day, it was nearly empty, a dismal sky and muddy trails encouraging fewer visitors than he'd counted on previous trips. Making a lap around the path, he checked his watch and took a seat on the bench next to the pond, their planned meeting now a week overdue.

It was another five minutes before the bob of a thick ponytail caught his eye. Unfolding the newspaper, he shook it out and leaned back against the bench. She slowed at the far side of the water. Pausing to light a cigarette, she turned in a casual circle anyone else would've pegged as a genuine attempt to admire the scenery. Philip peered over the edge of the paper, unable to help doing the same.

She was pretty; that much hadn't escaped his notice. Her figure pleasingly slender, the fine angles of her face looked like they belonged on a doll. The cloudy morning had darkened her hair, but in the right lighting it was almost the color of honey, tumbling long and straight halfway down her back in a heavy tassel he'd more than once fought the urge to touch.

Waiting until a mother and two children wandered back down the path, she took a drag on her cigarette and made a slow turn towards him. He pretended to read, waiting to make sure they were gone. Elizabeth sat down at his side and crossed her legs.

"What happened?"

He turned the page. "They detained me at Customs. Pulled me out for questioning."

She turned to stare at his profile, quickly looking away. Raising the cigarette to her lips, she inhaled. After a slow breath, she tapped it against the bench.

"Do you think we're blown?"

He shrugged, keeping his voice low.

"They let me sweat it out while they went through my bags . . . brought a second guy in to question me about my 'trip' to Moscow, make sure my answers lined up." He glanced behind her, keeping careful note of where everyone within sight was standing. "It could've been random, but I had to make sure they didn't put someone on me, risk the two of us being linked if they had."

"Yes." She shook her head, staring out at the water. "You were right."

Dropping the butt, she ground it under her toe. The wind gusted, splattering fat raindrops on the newspaper. Philip folded it up and leaned back to stretch his neck, checking around them.

"Did you have any trouble?"

A note of wry humor finally peeked through at the corner of her mouth. "He wished me luck finishing my dissertation, then stamped my passport."

Philip snorted. "I guess it helps being pretty."

The silence stretched out. Clearing her throat, Elizabeth lifted her chin.

"Did you get the tickets?"

"Yesterday. They're for tomorrow afternoon." He glanced her way. "Where are you staying?"

"It isn't far from here." She smoothed a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "About a mile from the river. I made contact with Vesper, got our passports. They look good." She studied his profile. "Did you find a barber?"

He shook his head, lip twitching.

"Are you sure you don't want me to keep the beard?"

Hoping he'd finally earn a smile, instead she frowned and lowered her eyes. He cleared his throat, picking the newspaper back up.

"You brought mine?"

"Yeah."

He waited until she noticed the passport sitting on the bench. She popped the latch on her purse, pretending to search for lipstick and a small mirror while stealthily exchanging one false document for the other. He quietly pocketed it.

"And . . . this."

Putting the lipstick away, she set a plain gold ring on the bench and edged it towards him. The silence for the first time uncomfortable, Philip cleared his throat.

"So what do you think?" He slipped the ring into his pocket and glanced over at her.

Elizabeth met his eyes, frowning. "What do you mean?"

"Of all of this." He inclined his head towards the towers in the distance. "What you've seen here."

Nodding, she looked down. "It's shocking, seeing it in person. There is . . . so much."

"Yeah." Philip shook his head.

Elizabeth smoothed her skirt. "What about you?"

He shrugged, trying to think of how to answer. "It's . . . different, that's for sure. Everything seems so new. Rebuilt. No sign the war ever happened." He paused. "The beer's pretty good."

She turned to stare at him, something he couldn't read flashing momentarily across her face. Folding the paper, he made a last check of their surroundings.

"So we'll meet at the train station tomorrow? Twelve o'clock?"

Elizabeth nodded. Rising without another word, she slipped her purse over one shoulder and left him alone on the bench.

* * *

_"I got us a room . . . at the Willard Hotel downtown . . ."_

Swallowing, Philip punched the button. The ancient elevator lurched into motion, starting a slow and ungainly climb towards the third floor. He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, not for the first time that morning distracted in recalling the precise spot her lips had brushed his throat. The . . . tickle of it. Tentative, the way she'd tasted his skin.

The elevator ground to a halt. Stepping into the hallway, he popped a couple of Tic Tacs in his mouth and gave them a quick crunch, almost able to hear her admonition he was going to teach Paige and Henry to ruin their teeth.

Coming to the appointed door, he rapped softly.

Footsteps sounded from inside, fading away . . . coming closer only to pause. The door opened. He glanced up, taking in the expression on her face the moment their eyes locked. Features soft, her lips were slightly parted, a hint of vulnerability showing. It wasn't unlike the way he'd caught her watching him before, at Henry's game, something in the wideness of her eyes coaxing trust.

He stepped inside. Her head dipped a fraction of an inch, shyness that had been a rarity before evident in the way her mouth quivered, fingers quick to trail a nervous path through her hair. She shut the door, obediently following when he took her hands.

Smiling, he backed into the room. Barely able to look at him, she came along, fingers shifting momentarily in his. Eyes never leaving her face, he slowed as they neared the bed. Elizabeth shook her hair back, finally lifting her chin.

The midday light coming in through the windows cast her eyes a deep, clear gray, complexion pale and smooth. He lifted a hand to tuck back the swaying curtain of hair masking her cheek. She lowered her gaze, mouth turning down at the corners. Fingers tracing the curve of her jaw, he studied her face.

Time had lent only grace to her features. Cheeks narrower and chin pointed with a hint more delicacy, she was as beautiful as the day they'd met, faint lines at the corners of her eyes tugging the memory of rare smiles earned as they cuddled on the couch with Paige and Henry.

As always, the small mark on her lip was a potent distraction. She wasn't as fond of it, he knew, attempts to hide or minimize its existence with makeup all the more endearing in light of how thoroughly he'd been captivated. The smile long having faded from his face, he again stroked her cheek, wanting to kiss her on precisely that spot.

Her lip twitched as he guided up her chin. She stared back at him, desire growing warm and heavy in her eyes. He slowly leaned forward. Breathing shallow, she didn't move when he first made contact, mouth soft and supple as he applied the slightest pressure to the edge of her lip.

Encountering no resistance, he let the kiss linger, waiting to break it until she lowered her chin. She met his gaze, softening as he gently caressed the underside of her jaw. Her eyes fluttered closed, a slight tilt to her chin all that was needed in encouragement. Their lips touched again, the hesitant brush of fingertips fumbling a bit awkwardly across his cheek.

A hand curled at the back of his neck. Her mouth opened, head tipping to one side. Tongue greeting hers, he slid both hands to her waist, guiding but not pushing, for once needing her to come wholly to him.

It was hard not to dwell on injuries unintentionally committed, what had been easy to perceive as nervousness over their early attempts at sex, something far more sinister. Too late had he come to understand every encounter had felt forced, acquiescence for the sake of following orders pushing deeper wounds she hadn't allowed anyone to see.

_Never again. _

Her hands slipped under his coat. Breaking the kiss, he lifted a hand to her cheek, meeting her eyes for a long moment before reaching up to take off his scarf. She let her head dip again, hair dangling forward to obscure her mouth. Swallowing, she unbuttoned his sweater, fingers a little clumsy and breathing irregular. Eyes never leaving her face, he slid it off and reached for her hands.

"Would you like some champagne?"

She let him toy with her fingers for a moment. Finally meeting his eyes, she nodded. While he dealt with the cork she took a seat on the bed and unzipped her boots.

"Thank you." She took a sip and looked down, legs crossed.

Philip sat on the edge of the bed, watching as she fingered the stem of her glass.

"You okay?"

He said it softly. Elizabeth pushed her hair behind one ear.

"Yeah." She raised the champagne to her lips.

He reached over to rub her arm. Fidgeting for a moment, Elizabeth took a breath.

"I've never been," she paused, closing her eyes, "_nervous_ before. It's never been . . . it wasn't ever-"

She didn't finish.

_Real._

He took another drink. She sipped from her glass, head bowed.

"This time," she shook her head, frowning as if she couldn't find the words, "I wanted it . . . to be different. I wanted it to be-"

She trailed off. Setting his champagne on the nightstand, he leaned over to take her glass. He moved closer, slipping a hand to her cheek. She closed her eyes, the rise and fall of breath at the lovely juncture of clavicle and throat gaining speed as he caressed the point of her chin.

Waiting until her lips parted, he pressed his mouth softly to hers. Hands slid up his chest, arms curling at his neck. He stepped out of his shoes. Elizabeth scooted towards the headboard, their kiss breaking as he gently lay her back against the pillows.

Hair fanned out around her face, she stared up at him, fingertips soft in tracing his lips, gliding over the indentation in his chin. He loosened his tie and pulled it off, moving back over her. She guided his mouth down, sucking softly at his bottom lip. Finding his buttons, she unfastened them one by one. Philip shuddered and kissed her deeper.

Fingers tickled cool against his chest. Exploring. Stroking. The novelty of being touched showing little sign of waning, he closed his eyes, allowing a private moment to be immersed in the sensation of her hands on his skin, tangling in his hair, sliding down to unbuckle his belt.

_Wanting him._

He kissed her once more, very gently, and rolled off. She pulled the covers back while he stripped out of his shirt and pants. Kneeling on the bed, she lifted her chin and opened the buttons of her blouse, seeking his lips. He came to the edge, mouth fitting to hers, hands at work on her jeans.

Clothes removed, she crawled back to the head of the bed, expression soft, sensual. He followed, moving over her, aligning their bodies. Eyes trained on her face, he pushed inside her.

She drew a shaky breath. Mouth falling open, she arched against the pillow, their noses bumping. He balanced himself on both elbows, face inches from hers, memorizing every twitch of her mouth and unsteady lift of her chin.

A rhythm established, her fingers crawled up his arms, soft pants of breath wafting against his lips with each thrust. Her eyes closed; his didn't stray. She moved with him, face slack, pleasure written in the errant, darting slip of her tongue.

He lowered his lips to her neck. Elizabeth exhaled and curled fingers into his hair. A fragrant wisp of perfume tickled his nose, her skin cool and trembling as he slowly kissed his way up the underside of her throat. Reaching her chin, he paused, watching her mouth open in anticipation. He ghosted over her chin, lips hovering close, breaths mingling, waiting until at last she opened her eyes.

Their hips moved tightly in sync, motions fluid, rocking in an exchange that had taken place countless times before. The physicality of it had, for far longer than any deeper connection, simply worked. He knew what she liked, what had the power to make her jaw momentarily slacken, that it coaxed her pulse to race when he nuzzled the soft skin of her neck. Having her stare up at him from the bed, hair strewn messily over the pillow, eyes dark with desire, was entirely different. He settled his mouth over hers, relishing the warm, slow push of her tongue.

Her arms knotted at his neck, belly quivering as they joined. Philip broke for air, their eyes locked. Noses glancing, he softly kissed the mark on her lip, waiting until she sighed against his mouth to drift lower. Fingernails dug into his arms. Encouraged, he let his breath warm her skin, leaving a trail of kisses each place he touched. A tiny sound catching in her throat, she ducked her head, seeking his mouth.

He moved back over her. Kissing her once long and deep, he broke away, watching the tremble in her chin as his hips pushed into hers. Softly, tenderly, he brushed her mouth and receded, nibbled its edge and slid to dip his tongue in its center, taking from her lips again and again as her eyes fluttered closed.

* * *

Somewhere over the Atlantic he was awoken by the furtive nudge of Elizabeth's elbow. Jerking, he fumbled to get off her shoulder, accidentally putting a hand in her lap. She sat up straighter, leg tensing the moment his fingers brushed it.

"Sorry."

He yawned and rubbed his eyes. She didn't say anything, but a quiet noise in the back of her throat hinted at disapproval. Sticking a finger under his collar to loosen his tie, he leaned past her to look out the small window adjacent their seat. An endless blue ocean stretched to the edge of the horizon, the sight of it still impressive enough to draw a grin of wonder on only his second trip in the air.

Elizabeth swallowed. Glancing at her, he noted the slight pucker in her chin, face unnaturally still.

"Is everything okay?" he asked quietly.

Closing her eyes, she took a breath.

"Yes, fine." She said it mechanically and reached over to pull down the shade. Straightening the hem of her sweater, she nodded towards the aisle. "They're about to start serving dinner. I told her you wanted the beef tips."

"Thanks."

He studied her face for a moment more before turning away. The plane was filled mostly with men, a handful of couples within eyesight and a family or two seated near the back. The youngest and most attractive of their three stewardesses came down the aisle, smiling before bending down in front of the man across from him.

"Can I get you anything, sir?"

He was large, a stubbly jowl hanging over the top of his collar. Philip watched him stub out a cigarette, not missing the momentary detour his eyes made before coming back to her face. Cheek twitching, he propped one elbow on the armrest.

"Scotch on the rocks."

She turned to him, flashing an identical smile. "And you?"

Careful not to look at anything south of her chin, he gave her a slight nod.

"I'll have the same."

Her cheeks picked up a hint of color. Resting a hand on the empty seat in front of him, she leaned closer. "So is this your first time flying with us?"

Crinkling his nose sheepishly, he shrugged. "I guess you could tell, huh?"

"Yeah."

He held her gaze until she moved to the next row of seats. Stretching to relieve the crick in his neck, Philip leaned back in the chair.

"She seems to like you."

Elizabeth flipped the page in her magazine, voice the tiniest bit dry. Not responding, he glanced at her out of the corner of one eye. Her wedding ring glinted in the light, slim on the fine length of her finger. He absently fiddled with his.

"Lemme guess, you just joined the club?" The man across the aisle winked.

"Yes, that's right." Starting to extend a hand, Philip quickly retracted it when their drinks came. "Just two weeks ago. Steven Turner. And this is my wife, Lydia."

He said it a little too quickly, allowing his fingers to fumble with all the nervousness of a new groom as he reached for Elizabeth's hand. Taking a sip of scotch, the man lifted his glass in a toast.

"Mike." He exhaled and set the scotch down. "Twenty-three years next month. Wasn't always easy, but can't imagine a day of it without her."

"Wow." Philip raised his eyebrows, looking over at Elizabeth. "That's just-"

"It's sweet." Lacing their fingers, she leaned over his arm and rubbed the back of his wrist, a smile spreading across her lips. "You must be very happy."

A little distracted having her so close, Philip swallowed and squeezed her thumb. "That's really something."

Mike took another sip of scotch and raised an eyebrow.

"So, you watch baseball, Steve?"

Philip flashed a casual grin. "Of course."

"Catch the All-Star game last week?"

After dinner, Elizabeth closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, still as a statue even though he suspected she wasn't asleep. Careful not to bump the armrest, he stole a look in her direction. Pale and deceptively delicate, her hands were folded in her lap. She was a formidable fighter for her size, something that had surprised him at first, as well as the unsuspecting opponents she hurled to the mats during sparring practice. Lightly built, she was nonetheless quick.

Smiling at the memory, he let his eyes drift up to her mouth. Her lips were thin and finely curved, a soft shade of pink that was . . . distracting. Philip closed his eyes, unable to banish the thought of her mouth under his, those same fingers cool and light in tracing his cheek while they kissed.

Swallowing, he settled back in the seat. Not for the first time in the confines of his imagination her hand left his face, sliding over a long line of buttons and the bump of his belt to lave attention over something else.

_They were supposed to be married now. _

Philip shifted uncomfortably, taking a second to tug at the leg of his pants. The topic hadn't yet been broached outside of a dictating of orders in Zhukov's office where children were included amongst mission objectives to be achieved within the first years. Nothing required of them beyond a nod of assent, the conversation was of no particular usefulness in gauging her readiness or interest in joining him in bed.

It had been . . . awhile. They'd spent little time alone together in Gryazi, none of it free. At times clearly still nervous around him, she said almost nothing outside of training. Their conversations revolved around message transmissions, dead drops and the fabricated histories of Philip and Elizabeth Jennings, her approach to their preparation as serious as his.

_Perhaps with time to get used to one another, things would fall into place._

Her arm brushed his, quickly pulling back. Glancing over, he caught her looking away. She closed her eyes and stretched her neck.

"It's shorter than before."

He shrugged, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not sure how well the guy really understood me. At least he got it even on the sides."

Elizabeth nodded silently. She sat up straighter when the pilot came over the intercom to announce their approach, something in the thin set of her mouth hinting she was as concerned as he was about getting through on fake passports.

Waiting until she turned his way, he gave her a quick nod. She took a breath and returned it, a final confirmation exchanged between partners as the plane began its descent into their new life.

* * *

They found a suitable motel just after night fell in Canada, well after three in the morning for them. Philip unlocked the door and wedged it open awkwardly with one elbow.

"Are you hungry?"

Elizabeth followed him into the dark room, hanging back by the door while he searched for the light switch. The bed was covered in a faded blue, flowered comforter, a television set standing on the dresser across from it. He set down his suitcases and flipped it on.

"No."

"It really works." He flashed her a quick grin, the expression fading when she nervously crossed her arms and adjusted the neck of her sweater.

Turning back, he snapped the set off. Elizabeth put her suitcases by the door and turned to get something from her purse. Wandering to the back of the room, he opened the door across from the clothes rack and shook his head.

_They even had their own bathroom._

"At least we made it through Customs okay. That was perfect, what you said to the guy." Turning on the bathroom light, Philip took a look around and loosened his tie. "Do you care which side of the bed-?"

"No."

Something in her voice changed. Glancing up, Philip studied her face, noting she was still hanging back reluctantly next to the door, arms strapped across her middle. He started to speak, but stopped himself, the set of her jaw and faint glassiness in her eyes quickly dissuading the idea. He dropped his tie on the dresser and stuck the room key in his pocket.

"I'm gonna go hunt for a paper. Make sure we're caught up with the news." He kept his voice soft. "Do you need anything?"

Elizabeth shook her head, still not looking at him.

He wandered the motel grounds, taking a moment to examine the Coca-Cola machine at the front of the office building. The road they'd taken from town seemed busy for that time of night, a handful of cars rumbling by per minute. Frowning, he ambled over to the street, staring at the line of large, glowing signs stretching as far as the eye could see.

The shower was running when he returned, Elizabeth's things neatly situated by the far side of the bed. He hung his coat on the rack and untucked his shirt, sitting down on the bed to remove his shoes. Yawning, he flipped on the television and stretched out on top of the bedspread. The mattress was more comfortable than the one at the hotel in Frankfurt, anything an improvement over his bunk back in the training dormitory.

The water cut off. Only half listening to the news program, he settled back against the pillows. The door to the bathroom opened some ten minutes later. Hair wet and sticking to her cheeks, Elizabeth emerged, not meeting his eyes. She sat on the far edge of the bed with her back to him, one hand carefully holding the neck of her robe. Watching her silently for a moment, he finally rose from the bed and dug the Dopp kit out of his suitcase.

It was the best shower of his life. The water pressure strong enough to dig like tiny needles into his neck, the stiffness from the plane ride quickly eased under the heat. Wiping his face, he shut off the water and pulled back the curtain.

The lights were off in the bedroom, only his lamp switched on. Elizabeth had the covers pulled all the way to her neck, her thin frame balanced an inch from the edge of the bed. Shaking his head, he put his kit away and changed into pajamas. Easing the covers back, he climbed into bed, careful to give her enough room.

Too tired to question her behavior, he plumped his pillow, eyes growing heavy almost from the moment he switched off the lamp.

* * *

In a world filled with people he'd never had to work to understand, she was the greatest enigma he'd ever known. The others moaned like cows. Yanked his hair. Begged for things in simpering tones, voices so false he was no longer the only one putting on an act.

She held herself tightly in control. They didn't talk during sex and never had. Hands pushed and pulled. Heartbeats increased. Motions grew rough and sloppy. It was in her breath that he read her response. It too, she tried to measure as she neared the edge, holding it in, head falling back to the pillow when she couldn't, breathless pants escaping parted lips.

And as he stared down at her in a bed they'd thoroughly disheveled in a strange hotel room, it was how he knew she was close. Tiny gasps. Muffled sounds in the back of her throat. Futile attempts to hold back broken in a rushed exhalation against his upper lip.

Elizabeth opened her eyes when their noses brushed, meeting his gaze for mere seconds before they fluttered closed. Her face was drawn, the vein in her forehead rising under the flushed glow of damp skin. His breathing ragged as hers, he joined their mouths for the half-second he could forego the oxygen, wanting to be connected to her in every way.

She broke away and gritted her teeth, thighs shaking on either side of his hips. Her fingernails dug into his arms, hair a tangled mess strewn over the pillows. He bent to taste her chin, skin salty with perspiration, the quiet, feverish slap of meeting flesh the only sound in the room.

With little warning, she gripped his shoulders, pushed them, face tightening as she arched her back.

_"Philip . . ."_

She gasped it softly as a breath. Shuddering, he lowered his mouth to her throat, the small, trivial whisper of his name breaking down something deep in his gut. Her body contracted, neck tensed under the silent worship of his lips and tongue, the burn that tore through his hips when she seized him hard nearly making his eyes roll back.

Unable to do anything but thrust and breathe, he let it wash over him, unrestrained. Her lips found his throat, hand shaking as she cupped his cheek and brought his mouth back to hers. It was a clumsy kiss, tongues meeting then missing, control slipping away in the final seconds before he was overcome.

He grunted and gripped the pillow. Burying his face in her neck, he allowed himself one blissful, perfect moment of being joined, drowning in a sea of tingling and heat without worrying about anything at all.

Spent, he let his head droop the second it was over. Her pulse was light and fast under his cheek, breath warm where it tickled past his ear in deep pants. Leaving a final kiss at her throat, he rolled off of her and collapsed onto the pillows. She followed, pressing her cheek to his chest once he lifted an arm.

A hint of champagne was light on her breath, body soft cuddled against his. Staring up at the ceiling, he trailed fingers through her hair, never having felt quite so good.

For the longest time, neither of them moved, the sensation of her skin on his one he had no intention of quickly surrendering. She lifted her chin to glance up at him, the scent of shampoo wafting against his cheek as she settled back down.

"Thank you."

She exhaled softly, almost a laugh. Circling fingers through the hair on his chest, she smiled.

"For what?"

Her voice was lighter than he'd ever heard it, unguarded as he'd once imagined her in their earliest days. So relaxed he could've fallen asleep right there, he toyed with her hair, enjoying the feeling of it tumbling between his fingers.

"For making us take the afternoon off."

Elizabeth pushed up on one elbow and climbed on top of him. She narrowed her eyes, voice regaining some semblance of normalcy.

"That's what you wanna thank me for?"

Her hair fell in a long curtain next to her cheek, swaying lightly over the bed. Smiling, he smoothed it back.

"Mm-hmm."

She giggled, eyes crinkling beautifully at the corners. He drew a hand through her hair, spreading it out over her back. Expression softening, she stared down at him, moving ever so slowly closer to nibble at his bottom lip.

It was different than before, unhurried. For the first time, an exploration. He kissed her softly, studying her face.

She'd kept herself from him for the longest time, distance carefully cultivated. Bridging it had been a dance of halting steps, years of secrecy not easily faced, the one truth shining dark and genuine in her eyes after everything else fell away that she finally _wanted_ to be found, had pushed the rest aside and reached across the chasm between them to seek his hand.

Settling back under his arm, she curled closer, cool toes finding a warm spot to hide under his leg. He chuckled, turning to brush a kiss across her forehead.

"No socks?" he murmured, inhaling the scent of her hair. "Don't tell me your feet are finally the right temperature."

She smiled against his shoulder, running her fingers over his chest.

"No."

Both of them laughing softly, he pressed his cheek to her forehead. One knee was draped over his, her stomach warm and tender against his side. He closed his eyes.

"Do you ever miss it?"

She whispered it against his neck, arm resting lazily across him as if she wanted every possible inch of them touching.

He reached up to stroke her hair. "What?"

"Home."

Taking a moment, he traced fingers along the length of her arm, circling lightly at the point of her elbow.

"Sometimes. Little things."

She nodded, hair tickling the edge of his nose. He gently combed it back.

Swallowing, she touched his chest. "My mother, for my birthday, used to make a little soufflé cake." She paused and smiled, voice softening to a whisper. "_Ptichye moloko._ Just a small one in a bowl because the ingredients were hard to get. We would sit at the table after dinner and share it."

He craned his neck to better see her, watching the lines of her mouth as she talked.

"She would . . . tell me she was full, that I should take more than half," smile growing, Elizabeth touched her chin, "because she knew I wanted it."

"Did you let her?" He kissed the bridge of her nose.

"No." Elizabeth laughed in a whisper, a hint of sadness tugging at the corner of her mouth. "She . . . told me, near the end before I left, that the year I turned seven, I gave her this," she gestured with one hand, "_look_ no seven-year-old should've possessed. She said she could see from that moment forth there was no convincing me of anything else. That I only wanted to hear the truth."

Philip slid a hand up to take hers, toying with her fingers. Elizabeth shook her head.

"It's been so long, but sometimes when I look at Paige, I can still see her so clearly." She paused, voice softening. "She favors her."

"Really?"

Thoughtful, Elizabeth nodded.

"She has her chin, the same nose." She poked him, allowing a quiet laugh. "But your ears."

"Not really a gift on a girl."

She giggled. They lay in silence for a moment.

Kissing her again, he brushed her hair back. "She always reminded me more of you."

"You think so?" The question was the tiniest bit wistful.

"Mm-hmm." Lacing their fingers, he kissed the back of her hand. "I'd take her to the park when she was little and she'd grab my hand, pull me over to the slide and give very clear instructions on where to stand and how I was _not_ to drop her."

"And that was like me?" she asked in a whisper.

Smiling, he stroked her hair. "It was uncanny the way she'd narrow her eyes. And then she'd march over to the ladder-fearless."

Elizabeth ran her fingers over his chest and shook her head, remembering. "She always wanted me to take her on the swings."

Philip grunted, playing with her hair. "Yeah, she said I wouldn't push as high as you would."

"No," she agreed, voice quiet. "But she trusted you'd catch her."

Her expression softened, eyes growing serious. He lifted his chin, their mouths fusing in a kiss that was slow, almost lazy. His hands slid to her waist, caressing the soft skin at her navel before sliding higher.

She broke away, staring down into his eyes as he slowly explored her. Felt the curve of her hips and the weight of her cupped softly in his hands. Freely looked over the beauty of her nude form above him, the lights on, nothing in the way.

Sitting up in the bed, he slid a hand to her cheek, staring into her eyes for a long moment before leaning forward. Mouths soft in their connection, her head tipped gently to one side, tongue welcoming the quiet intrusion. Her hands crawled up his arms, raked his shoulders, twisted behind his neck.

He pulled her flush with him, fingers tracing slowly up and down the length of her spine until she broke away, breath warm on his lips. Meeting her eyes, he brushed her hair back and kissed her again, arms tight around her as they fell back onto the bed.

* * *

For the first night in a strange bed, it was a better sleep than he might've predicted. A shift in the mattress nudged him towards wakefulness, the pillow under his ear soft enough to convince him there was little to be gained from moving. The covers pulled a little beneath his arm, a cool draft sneaking into the gap between his shirt and pants. The bed moved, the door to the bathroom closing a moment later. Stretching, he flopped over and scratched an itch, drifting back off.

The next time he woke, Elizabeth was moving quietly around the room. Yawning, he rubbed his face. She was already dressed, hair spilling out over her shoulders. Back to him, she picked up her brush.

"Morning." He yawned again, propping himself on one elbow. "Did you sleep okay?"

She finished putting her hair up without turning in his direction. "I'm going to have a look around. Assess things." Lifting her earrings from the counter, she leaned closer to the mirror to put them in. "We should have breakfast soon."

He flopped back on the pillows, wishing he had an aspirin. "Sure."

She grabbed her sweater off the back of the chair. He watched her slide her arms into it, turning away before she could notice him staring.

"The room key?" Her tone was calm, businesslike.

"Coat pocket."

The door shut a moment later. Philip rubbed his forehead and pushed back the covers, needing to take a whiz. Fifteen minutes later he locked the door to the room and wandered over to the small diner across the street from the hotel.

Elizabeth had chosen a table by the window, facing the street. She met his eyes from across the room, something he couldn't quite read passing through them before she turned to study the menu.

"Hi, honey." He bent to kiss her cheek, rubbing her arm for good measure. Unbuttoning his coat, he slid into the booth across from her and picked up the menu. "So what are you having?"

She smiled at the waitress walking by, waiting until she was gone to lower her voice. "I walked around a little. Scoped out the place. The bus stops right down the road every thirty minutes. We can take it into town, find someplace to rent a car."

"You're off to an early start." He yawned and flipped over the menu.

_Eggs, bacon and coffee._

"It's nine-thirty." She shot him a look, clearly not having missed his note of sarcasm. "We weren't sent here to sleep all day."

Shaking his head, he set the menu aside and leaned across the table towards her. "No, but we _are_ supposed to be on our honeymoon. The manager's expecting us to spend a little more time than usual in the room, if you catch my drift. You might not want to draw so much attention."

She stared back at him, jaw tightening a barely perceptible amount. He paid for the remark the rest of the way through breakfast. All attempts to smooth it over met with icy silence and an emotionless shrug, by the time the check came there was little doubt in his mind she'd harbored secret thoughts of leaping across the table to smash a piece of toast in his face. Reaching for his wallet, he exhaled.

"I'm sorry."

Making him wait a full minute, Elizabeth finally nodded.

He downed the rest of his coffee. "Why don't we head into town, map things out? We can go back tonight and drop the message we made it through okay, wait for instructions and our passports."

"Yeah." Tone returning to normal, she reached for her purse. "I need to go back to the room for a minute and then we can go."

"Sure."

He buttoned his jacket and started to rise, understanding only after a frown was cast in his direction that he wasn't invited. Flashing her the half-smile of apology that was quickly becoming second nature, he shook his head.

"Sorry."

_Things were turning out to be more difficult than anticipated. _

It was a long morning. By mid-afternoon they'd managed to secure a street map and a rental car, planning out escape routes and emergency meeting places before driving to the west side of town to locate their drop site. He didn't bother suggesting they switch on the radio, guessing from the serious set of her mouth she wasn't in the mood for distractions.

"There. That's it." Elizabeth inclined her chin towards the approaching intersection. "The bench across from the fountain."

"Yeah, I see it." He passed it by, turning down the next street instead. "Not the best choice of spot. It's far enough from the street, but right out in the open. Lots of people walking by."

"We should just do it now."

Frowning, he glanced her way. "It's too risky. One of us should come back alone tonight, wait until there are fewer-"

"We're already a week overdue." Though her tone was carefully neutral, there was no missing the implication this was somehow his fault. She pulled out her purse, finding a small slip of paper and a dark brown sheath. "I'll go."

Philip pulled up to the curb and put the Mercury in park. She scribbled a set of digits and folded the paper, stuffing it into the envelope.

"It's pretty crowded." He checked the rearview mirror, staring down the block. "You don't think we'd get in and out faster together?"

She frowned slightly, but nodded, meeting his eyes. Sliding the message into her pocket, she pushed open the door. They wandered down the sidewalk at a leisurely pace, glancing carelessly into shop windows as they passed. Elizabeth slid her hand into his once they reached the small square by the fountain, tugging him towards the bench. Squinting in the sun, he tucked an arm across the back of the seat.

"Woman, your left. Twenty feet."

She smiled as if he'd said something adoring. He moved closer and softly nuzzled her ear.

"She's moving away." He whispered it, stroking her arm. "Okay, your side is clear."

Elizabeth slipped the message from her pocket, scooting over as if to get closer to him while stealthily sticking it to the underside of the bench. Her ponytail brushed his arm. Momentarily distracted by the soft, flowery smell of her hair, he blinked and forced his gaze away from her chin.

They kept up the ruse for a full minute. Peering behind him one last time, Elizabeth straightened back up and met his eyes. He casually rose, lacing their fingers. They dropped hands once they got to the car. He took a quick, final survey of the street, satisfied they weren't being followed.

Elizabeth leaned back against the seat. "We can start checking for the signal tomorrow, wait for them to set up a meeting."

"Yeah." He pulled away from the curb. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes. A little." She scanned the road behind them. "I want to drive by the site one more time before dinner and see how crowded it is later in the day."

"Sure." Slowing at the light, Philip studied the signs hanging over a row of businesses on the adjacent street. "Have you ever tried pizza before?"

He looked over when an unnatural span of seconds passed without a response. She'd turned to stare out the window, finger rubbing edgily at her chin. Finally, she shook her head.

"Of course. In Chicago."

He frowned. "No, I mean-"

"We're not supposed to talk about it." Her voice was stiff, a warning.

Sighing, he started the car forward after the light changed. "So it's a state secret what sort of food you like?"

She ignored him. The silence stretched out as he drove back towards the center of town. Slowing when traffic picked up, he glanced her way.

"I didn't . . . mean anything by it. I just wanted to know what sounded good to you for dinner."

She swallowed, the bottom of her cheek flinching. "We should go back to the place by the motel."

He didn't respond. They drove the rest of the way in silence, a never-ending sea of signs in English advertising everything from souvenirs to golfing supplies doing little to stifle the feeling they were absolutely alone.

Back at the motel, he shut off the engine, neither of them moving. Finally he lowered his head.

"I'm . . . just trying to make things a little easier. This is strange for me too."

She turned her head towards the window and twisted her mouth to one side. "This is for our cover. Nothing more." Clearing her throat, she shook her head. "It's not real. And we have to remember that."

He took a breath. "Yeah, it's for our cover. But we're still going to be working together. And living together. I need to know if you don't like pizza or want it quiet in the room after dinner or we're gonna drive each other crazy."

Elizabeth stared straight ahead.

"It's _not real_," she repeated, voice harder. "Nothing about you or me is real. What we like and don't like, where we came from, how Philip and Elizabeth Jennings met . . . it's all a story made up so that we can do our jobs." She nodded, turning to face him. "And we can't get confused about that."

He blew out his breath. "I'm not _confused_. There's just no reason to make this harder than it has to be."

Not meeting his eyes, she shook her head, the gesture as dismissive as any words could've been. Getting out without bothering to answer, she shut the door and left him alone in the car.

* * *

"Did Barb finish booking the Peterman flights?"

Philip glanced up from zipping his pants. Elizabeth emerged from the bathroom in her bra and panties, hair swinging loose over her shoulders. Finding her socks in the messy pile of clothes strewn across the bed, she sat down to put them on.

"I told her." Philip shook out his shirt and stuck an arm in one sleeve. "She and Stavos spent half the morning bickering back and forth over who'd last seen the stapler."

Elizabeth snorted, shaking her head. "Of course they did."

Rising from the bed, she stepped to his side, running a hand up his chest before starting on his buttons. Cheeks still a little flushed, her face was soft, relaxed. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. Time slowed. Her fingers paused at his shirt, a soft ghost of breath tickling his chest as she stilled. Eyes half-closed, she lifted her chin.

They came together easily, mouths joining without hesitation or resistance. Forehead lingering close to hers after they parted, Philip slid his hands to her shoulders, tracing her arms as she finished buttoning him up. She kissed his throat once she was through, slipping into her blouse so he could do the same.

_Everything had changed_. Voice softer, even the way she looked at him was different, no barriers in the way.

They finished dressing in silence, plopping down on the bed to put on shoes. Philip pushed her hair back, nibbling at the soft curve of her neck and shoulder. She took a breath and blew it out, fingers trembling as she tried to zip her boots. He reached over to help. She met his eyes, touched his chin, let her fingers trail across his cheek.

Kissing him one final time, she lowered her head. He went to the divan to retrieve their coats. She draped hers over one arm, a smile forming at her lips as she watched him put his on. Lip twitching, he reached for her hand and leaned over to whisper in her ear.

"You wanna sweep the room for fingerprints for old time's sake?"

She giggled, looking down. "No."

"You sure? Cause-"

Lacing their fingers tighter, she gave his hand a squeeze and pulled him towards the door.

"Let's go."

* * *

**Reviews are like a warm pair of tube socks . . .**


	5. Chapter 5: COMINT

**Chapter Five: COMINT**

"Are you _kidding_ me? How do you miss that?"

Philip frowned at the TV set and reached for his beer. Taking a swallow, he ran an exasperated hand through his hair. At the far end of the couch, Elizabeth flipped a page in her book and smiled, feet shifting in his lap.

"You're going to wake up Henry," she admonished in a whisper, eyes narrowing a little.

"Yeah, well _he_ coulda made that shot." Philip grunted and dug into the bag of pretzels. "He's gonna sulk all the way to school when he finds out the Caps got scored on twice after we made him go to bed. Can't believe they didn't block that pass."

Elizabeth shot him a look.

"The last time you let him stay up, _I_ was the one who got the call from Mrs. Kosta."

Still crunching on pretzels, Philip nodded. "Yeah, I remember. And then she somehow roped you into sending cupcakes for the class party." He downed the rest of his beer, raised an eyebrow and shrugged. "For an old lady, she's pretty good. Might wanna think about recruiting her."

"I _volunteered_." Glaring in mock warning, she poked a toe towards his stomach. "And then I had to make an extra dozen because you and Henry kept sneaking them out of the kitchen."

Grinning, he captured her foot.

"Mm-hmm."

He let his fingers brush lightly along its sole, winking at her.

She giggled and pushed her hair behind one ear. "Stop it."

"Stop what?"

Eyes on the game, Philip resumed lazily kneading the soft arch of her foot. Elizabeth took a sip of wine and settled back against the pillows. Working his way higher, he located the soft hollow tucked at the base of her ankle, gently applying pressure until she made a quiet sound. He glanced over. The tension had drained from her face, the book in her hands momentarily drooping.

Suppressing a smile, he stealthily eased a finger under the top edge of her sock.

"Don't you _dare_."

Quiet, the warning was no less dangerous. She pulled her feet from his lap, expression like a cat getting ready to pounce as she crawled across the couch. Philip lifted both hands as if to fend off an attack, not trying particularly hard to block her. He shook his head, unable to keep from grinning when she reached over to tickle him.

"I don't know what you're ta-"

Her mouth closed over his, fingers digging under his sweater for a vulnerable spot at his ribs. Growling quietly, he captured her hands, helping balance her long enough to get a knee across his lap. She settled on top of him, hair falling down his chest. Breaking away after only a brief kiss, Elizabeth lifted her chin an inch from his.

"Leave my socks alone."

He raised a hand to smooth back her hair, letting it spill between his fingers. Her eyes were narrowed but soft, a hint of playfulness tugging at her cheek. Trying not to smile, he tucked her hair behind one ear.

"My finger slipped."

She rolled her eyes and pushed off him, leaning over to collect her empty wine glass. "Sure it did." Taking his beer bottle, she gestured towards the half-empty pretzel bag on the table. "You finished with those?"

"Thanks."

Keeping a straight face, he turned back to the TV. The lid of the trash can opened, followed by a muffled clink as the bottle dropped. He didn't look up when she rinsed her glass and toweled it dry, waiting until he heard the plastic rustle of the pretzel bag to steal a covert glance into the kitchen. Pausing with the cabinet open, Elizabeth set the pretzels on the counter and reached up to take a small black box off the shelf.

"What's this?"

There was a slight rise in her voice, the way she ducked her head so he wouldn't see her smile, adorable. Coming up behind her, he smoothed her hair to one side and bent to kiss the nape of her neck. Her skin was warm, the subtle change in her breathing the moment his lips touched, quiet, intimate. She leaned back against both hands down her shoulders, he kissed her again, marveling at how thin her arms were, soft even through her sweater.

"Something I wanted you to have."

"Yeah?" It was barely a whisper, her head dipping forward a little more.

His lips settled once more at the edge of her hairline. "Yeah."

She swallowed and rested one hand on the counter, balance not particularly steady. Curling both arms around her middle, he tucked his head at her shoulder, nodding towards the box. She giggled quietly and opened it. Touching her chin, she stared at the necklace, a few seconds passing in silence before she pushed her hair behind one ear.

"It's . . . beautiful."

"You like it?"

She bit her lip and nodded, passing him the box. Hands soft but sure at the task, she twisted her hair up into a knot, lifting it off her neck. He disentangled the chain from its holder, delicately straightening the heart pendant before reaching around her. Fingering it briefly once it was fastened, Elizabeth let her hair down and turned to face him.

It was the moment he waited for, every time. The softness of her expression, alone, was enough to fill him with a satisfaction so private he didn't dare share it, the clarity in her eyes just before she closed them in anticipation of his kiss something like a drug. He lowered his chin when she touched his cheek, watching her lips part slightly as she stood on her toes and leaned up to seek his mouth.

After two weeks, there was no longer urgency, his hands settling at her waist absent any worry they'd be pushed away. Her arms curled at his neck, luxurious and slow, body molding to his as he leaned against the counter. Their mouths linked, she moved with him, nudging lifts of her chin and the quiet meeting of tongues reaffirming a fledgling, newfound intimacy. Breath warm on his lips, Elizabeth stepped back and ran her fingers down his chest.

"Is the game almost over?"

Their eyes met, hers dark with the need for something else. Not answering, he took her hand. Curling her fingers into his, she let him lead her into the living room, the corner of her mouth quirking when he leaned over to dig the remote from the couch cushions. He snapped the TV off and gave her fingers a slow tug, the smile fading from her face as he backed her towards the stairs.

* * *

"Did you get a chance to finish those invoices?" Elizabeth rose from her chair and stepped into the hall to tear off a printout.

Staring down at his desk, Philip swallowed, the hint of perfume drifting towards him doing little to ease a knot in his gut that had pulled steadily tighter with every passing hour. He took a breath, the answer monotone.

"Yeah." Tapping his pen, he glanced up when she returned, waiting until the door was shut. "What time are you meeting him?"

"Six." She didn't look up, forehead growing increasingly lined as she studied the paper in her hand. Shaking her head, she reached for the door handle. _"Barb."_

Philip closed his eyes once she was out of the office, gripping the pen hard enough to break it.

_Pull it together._

Propping both elbows on the desk, he let his shoulders slump, tiredly rubbing his forehead. He straightened up when Elizabeth breezed back into the room, quickly turning to the paperwork.

"You should take a Tylenol."

"What?" He frowned, cautious at the sympathetic tilt of her mouth.

She inclined her chin. "For your head."

Leaning back in the chair, he ran a hand over his face.

"Yeah."

She grabbed her coat off the hook and slid into it, knotting the belt. "I put a casserole together this morning. Heat the oven to three-fifty and stick it in for an hour. Then remove the foil and another fifteen minutes to get it to brown. Paige knows what to do if it's not looking right."

He nodded, flipping the pen onto his desk.

Elizabeth shook her hair out. "And you won't forget to check her French homework? She has a quiz tomorrow."

Taking a breath, he flashed her a quick smile. "Yeah."

"Good." She picked up her purse. "I'll see you later."

Philip looked down, something tight and ugly gnawing its way through his chest. Swallowing, he pushed it back. "Wait."

He glanced out into the main office and nudged her towards the door, pulling her into a hug in the private corner behind her desk. Her arms curled around his neck, the knot in his stomach momentarily loosening. Releasing her after only seconds to drink in the scent of her hair, he cleared his throat.

"Good luck."

Touching his chest, she gave him a quick kiss. "I'll see you tonight."

He waited until she was gone to clench his hand into a fist.

Dinner came out better than expected, through little merit of his. Homework done, Henry shuffled upstairs for his bath. Philip frowned at the cheese-encrusted casserole dish and started the water running, glancing over when Paige appeared at his elbow with a stack of plates.

"Thanks, honey." He set the dish aside to soak. "Your salad was good."

"Thanks." She twisted her fingers together. "Dad, can I use the phone? I know it's almost eight, but I really need to talk to Jennifer about something."

He rinsed the first plate. "You finished your homework?"

"Yup."

The smile that accompanied the answer was more angelic than required. Raising an eyebrow, he waited. Paige stared back at him, showing no sign of budging.

"What about that quiz in French?"

Sighing heavily, she leaned against the counter, lip beginning to protrude. "She told you."

"Mom and I are sneakier than you think." He nodded towards the stairs. "Start studying. I'll come up in a little bit."

Giving him one last sad look that on any other occasion might've worked, she disappeared through the doorway. Philip shook his head. Finishing up the plates, he shut off the water and glanced at his watch.

Almost eight.

He gripped the counter, not wanting to think about what was almost certainly going on by then. Elizabeth's face flashed through his mind, eyes heavy with all the markers of lust, the worn, comfortable blue sweater she'd put on that morning exchanged for something more provocative, a blouse thin enough to see through and a skirt that showed off her legs, the perfect bait to lure a man who wasn't him into her bed.

_It was what they were trained for._

Philip lowered his head. At nineteen, the idea of sleeping around to gain access to intelligence hadn't sounded . . . particularly bad. Unquestionably presented as a perk of the assignment by their superiors, there had been enough talk circulating the men's barracks to know certain _lectures_ were eventually coming.

Their instruction was thorough, ample direction provided both on method and technique. Managing not to react in front of the others, he was at times more than a little distracted by the idea of trying out what they'd learned between the warm, slender legs of his newly assigned partner, instead forced to settle for his hand moving furtively under the covers in the lacking privacy of his bunk. The only other available option the shower room, he got it done quickly, discreet sounds they all tried to ignore indicating he was rarely the only one relieving himself on any given night.

In actual practice, what they did was far from the fantasy he'd once pictured. Their targets were carefully selected, _honey trapping_, as it was colloquially called, by far most effective with those incapable of attracting a partner through traditional means. Personalities typically as unappealing as looks, he nonetheless had to find a way to finish, to ignore their awkwardness and unsuspecting overtures thick with quiet desperation, and pretend for a few hours to feel something he did not, using their naiveté to gain trust and draw forth information.

They were drilled in the necessity of such measures behind enemy lines, reminded it was no different from any of the other orders they carried out. He refused to dwell upon it, pushed all feelings aside and forced himself to inhabit a separate corner of his mind for the duration when _Scott_ came to the door, or _Clark_ or _Rich_. It was less complicated that way, to let go and act the part, allowing _Dave_ to become aroused even when he felt nothing, for _Carlos_ to whisper his desires in the ear of the man or woman he was trying to take to bed, stepping free from their skin the moment the disguise came off.

_It was the only way to go through with an act others would've considered unthinkable._

Exhaling, he pushed away from the counter and rubbed his face, composing himself before heading upstairs. Henry was stretched out on his bed, engrossed in coloring a picture. Rapping once, Philip poked his head in the door.

"Fifteen more minutes, then teeth and lights out." Stooping to pick up his fallen hockey stick, he propped it in the corner and leaned over to see what he was drawing. "That the new space shuttle?"

"Mm-hmm." Too distracted to look up, Henry reached for a different marker, hair falling in his eyes. Smiling, Philip mussed it.

"Fifteen minutes."

Paige turned in her chair when he knocked. She tapped her pen unenthusiastically against the desk, the set of her mouth bearing a familiar stubbornness. Plopping on her bed, he put a hand out for her textbook.

"Okay, kiddo, what chapter?"

She sighed in an exaggerated fashion, but handed it over, pointing to the bookmark sticking out at the top. Folding her arms, she slumped in her chair.

"Dad, I hate French."

"It's important to learn." He flipped to the right page and winked at her. "You might want to become a travel agent one day."

Paige made a face.

"You and mom didn't have to learn it," she pointed out, tone edging a step closer to smart.

Ignoring it, he glanced over the vocabulary.

"No . . . but sometimes I kinda wish one of us had. Would make it easier when we need to set up travel arrangements overseas." He raised an eyebrow and shrugged. "Could've avoided accidentally eating those snails at that one conference . . ."

He turned to the next page, peeking up long enough to see her cheek twitch.

By nine-thirty, she was in bed, the house growing quiet not long after. Kicking off his shoes, he stretched out with a book, fighting the urge to check his watch for what seemed like the hundredth time in half an hour.

They hadn't discussed it, both of them aware certain parts of their job would continue regardless of what else was happening between them. That he would don Clark's genial smile and sit through dull evenings at Martha's. That she would slip into tight, leather dresses she never wore around him and twirl straws through fruity drinks in smoky bars, giggling in a silly, empty way that couldn't have sounded less like her before leading horny men back to some rented room.

Closing his eyes, Philip let his head thump against the wall. He'd started working sources before she had, within months of their arrival. It was a slow process, each of their targets requiring a careful period of study. He watched for patterns and learned their habits, waited for a place to slip in, a penchant for picking up fresh flowers on the way home, a husband who spent all his time at the office, or a month of lonely nights with no company but take-out cartons exposing angles they could work.

Just as Elizabeth indulged fantasies in platinum blonde wigs and short skirts, he eased his way into crevices, becoming the sand that seeped in to fill whatever they lacked. For some it was the desire for romance, to be surprised by a new bracelet or bottle of perfume in a pretty, wrapped box, and for others, the excitement of a new lover, most of them aching for companionship. Young and more than a little on edge, it provided, if nothing else, an outlet for release. Taking them to bed came with surprising ease, what he initially lacked in breadth of sexual experience masked with a few carefully chosen words, the act quickly becoming routine.

It was what they were trained for, nothing more, the heartfelt promises he murmured evaporating as untraceably as he did once their usefulness was exhausted. Kept well apprised of what he was doing, Elizabeth seemed unaffected by the nights he came home late, voice never changing when she asked how it went. He showered before climbing into bed beside her, bothered by the idea of another woman's perfume on their sheets even as he quietly suspected it was more troubling to him than her.

But as months turned to years, the emptiness of it grew harder to ignore. He performed his duties, gave them orgasms and whispered what they wanted to hear, pretending to return the adoration in their eyes. It was as he stuck a key in the ignition and drove home in the quiet hours of the morning that a dull hollowness spread through his chest, shaky declarations of love professed to a dozen men who weren't him needling a tender wound, a poor substitute for the one it'd taken years for him to admit he wanted to hear.

Philip rubbed his forehead, setting the book aside. He tried never to picture what they did to her, bothered for far longer than she'd known by the thought of her with any of them. What she did to cope, he couldn't have guessed, whether she took refuge in a separate corner of her mind or cloaked her contempt in a false smile, letting them use her body as they pleased while allowing the cool burn of anger to wash away any inkling of guilt that might later follow.

_"You mean to tell me a girl never put her finger up your ass before?"_

Now, more than ever, he understood the degree to which it must've disgusted her to go through with it, the violation she'd suffered long ago relived every time she had to get on her knees and perform sexual favors for whatever hapless bureaucrat happened to have access to the intelligence they needed. No choice. No possibility of deciding, just once, that she didn't want to. Wishing he could say it felt no more personal now, he was unable to deny that it did.

A door shut quietly downstairs. Exhaling, Philip picked up his book. She came up the stairs, unclasping her watch as she slipped into the bedroom.

He looked up, studying her face. "How'd it go?"

"I got it."

Clearly pleased at her success, her tone was crisp, confident. She headed over to the dresser, barely glancing at him. He nodded, careful to keep his voice steady.

"Great."

Elizabeth pulled off her sweater, briefly pausing. "We're gonna need cars . . . so, I think maybe-"

Not hearing her, he froze, eyes locked on the angry, red lashes strapped across her back.

"What happened?"

"Nothing." She shook her hair out, voice as much tired as annoyed. "It's nothing."

"That . . . that's not nothing." Chest so tight it was suddenly difficult to breathe, he set the book down and crossed the room to her side.

"It's fine." Elizabeth turned to the dresser. "He was a little weird."

"Let me see."

She frowned at him, voice growing sharp. "I said it was fine."

"How can you say that?" Shaking his head, he pushed back her hair.

"It," she flinched when his thumb brushed her neck, holding out a hand to stop him, "happens sometimes, Philip."

Unable to take his eyes off the welts, he swallowed. They were pinking around the edges, already starting to swell, dark, vicious colors harsh against the cream of her skin. Reaching out gently, he smoothed a strand of hair away to examine them.

"Can I just-?"

A choked sound caught in the back of her throat the moment his fingers made contact. Utterly unlike the quiet sighs he relished drawing from her while they made love, the connection was forced no less painfully to the front of his mind. Frozen in place, he watched her mouth waver at the corners as she tried to check the reaction, a spastic twitch in her cheek betraying the pain she wouldn't admit to. Eyes down, she didn't raise her head, couldn't even look at him.

Just like before.

Barely able to contain his rage, he turned, forcing himself to think methodically. _Shoes. Gun. Silencer._

"I'm gonna deal with it."

Elizabeth's voice picked up a dangerous note. "You're gonna deal with it?"

"Yeah."

Yanking on his shoes, he jerked the zipper hard enough to break it. She crossed the room, standing over him in her bra and skirt.

"If I'd wanted to _deal_ with him, you don't think he'd be dealt with?" Her voice was harsh, anger, not for the first time, directed at him. "I wanted the Intel, and I got it."

They were the same excuses she'd tried to make before, that it was a long time ago, that she'd put it behind her, empty words paling in the face of the tightly bottled pain he'd witnessed every day for sixteen years. Unable to contain her rage as she'd flung herself at Timoshev in their garage, it was the haunted look in her eyes as she stood, shaking and triumphant, over him that had hollowed him inside, leaving him sick at the thought of what she'd suffered alone.

_Never again._

Ignoring her protests, he brushed past her. "Great. I'll be back in an hour."

"Philip, I don't need you to fight my battles for me." She lowered her voice to a whisper, hazarding a glance towards the kids' rooms. "It's over. Let's just go to bed."

Breathing hard as if he'd run for miles, he hesitated only a second before turning for the stairs.

_"Philip."_

He didn't answer, working through the details. More likely than not, Schultz would still be at the hotel room, the kind of man quick to turn a business meeting into an excuse to indulge sick perversions on a female client unlikely to feel any particular impulse to make the long drive home to his wife at such an hour. A stop at the garage to switch out the cars. Someone on the desk staff, perhaps. A problem they'd been notified about with his credit card. He'd force the door only if he had to.

Hands steady and head clear, Philip jerked open the door to the circuit breaker box. He grabbed his gun off the shelf, checking the chamber before shoving in a clip. Elizabeth's boots clacked on the stairs.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Eyes dark and face lined with fury, she grabbed his arm.

He stared back at her, heart pounding hard enough to hurt. "Someone beat the shit out of my wife."

"I can handle it. It is my job." She hissed it, glaring at him.

Unwilling to let her write it all off for the sake of duty, denying herself the right to so much as _have_ personal hurts, he shook his head.

"I know, but you don't deserve it."

"Philip, _stop_." She tried to grab him, an angry exhalation following when he twisted out of her grip. "You are not my daddy."

It was something in the way she said his name that struck a nerve, the icy resentment in her voice catching him hard in a familiar place. He couldn't see straight, could barely keep from shaking as he started towards her, voice low.

"No, I'm not your _daddy_. I'm your husband, Elizabeth. What do you think husbands do?"

She didn't hesitate or flinch, just stared back at him, eyes unwavering.

"I wouldn't know."

Dismissive, the blow knifed him deep in the gut, pushing him away as if he not only had no business caring for her, but was to be condemned for so much as harboring the _desire_ to do so. Expression calm and cold, she stalked from the laundry room. He let her pass, a weight forming in his chest as her footsteps faded away up the stairs.

It was as if everything they'd come to share in recent weeks had never happened, all hint of soft intimacies exchanged and loving words for the first time offered, yanked back. As if none of it had mattered to her at all.

A door shut upstairs. Still breathing hard, he jammed his fist into the workbench, wanting to punch a hole in the wall. He lowered his head, briefly debating whether to go after Schultz anyway before finally conceding it would only make matters worse. Sticking the gun back in the cabinet, he snapped off the light.

A single lamp was still on, the water running quietly in the bathroom. Closing the door, he undressed and pulled back the covers, stomach knotted.

After what seemed like an eternity, the light snapped off. Elizabeth came out in one of his old t-shirts and a pair of maroon knee socks that on any other occasion he would've teased her about. Not deigning to direct so much as a glance his way, she crawled into bed and reached for the lamp.

Chest tight and aching, he didn't react, simply stared up at the shadows forming on the ceiling, nowhere close to sleep.

* * *

It was during their first week together on the job that he'd started to suspect she'd imagined killing him.

Their ability to disagree on every subject from who got to drive to where to hang towels by the shower mildly impressive if only from a statistical perspective, navigating the day required a carefully woven path through a minefield. A walking ball of nerves, Elizabeth was tightly on edge the moment the door to their motel room shut. Up in the mornings before him, she combed through every article in the previous day's paper, scanning for information and quietly reading aloud to practice her pronunciation. Determining by the third day she was reluctant to shower or even use the toilet with him in the room, he'd quickly picked up the habit of smoking.

Having more than once been taken aside by Zhukov during training and advised theirs was a particularly well-suited match, he could only wonder if the Colonel had ever been married.

The Saturday after their arrival, he woke to find her gone. Rubbing his eyes, he fumbled around on the nightstand, finding only his watch and billfold. No note, as usual. A little relieved, he yawned and climbed out of bed.

He was almost done shaving by the time keys jingled in the lock. The door opened, then closed, a short huff of annoyance following. He stuck his razor under the faucet, ignoring the sharp ruffle of the comforter as she began making the bed.

The box spring squeaked when she sat down. "I checked the site."

There was no pretense of greetings or false pleasantries, their conversations from the previous night simply flowing into the next.

"Yeah?" He splashed water on his face, already knowing the answer from her tone.

"Nothing."

He grabbed a towel. Dabbing on aftershave, he stuck the bottle back in his kit and snapped off the light. "It hasn't been a week yet."

Elizabeth glanced up when came out of the bathroom, getting a half-second look at the towel around his waist before quickly turning to study the wall. Sighing at the nervous jump her hands made in her lap, he crossed the room and stuck the kit in his suitcase. She didn't say anything while he dressed, finally clearing her throat once he sank onto the bed to put his shoes on.

"Maybe there was some sort of delay getting our passports sent over."

"I don't know. Maybe." He reached for his coat. "Remember that place in town we passed the other night, the one with the tables outside by the river? Do you want to try it for lunch?"

Ignoring him, she stood and began pacing the far side of the room. "We need to be _doing_ something."

Philip took a breath and pocketed his wallet. "Mission protocols say we give the embassy guys ten days before contacting Ottawa. They could be under surveillance right now, trying to wait until they're sure it's clear to send someone."

She lowered her head. "We're wasting time here."

He snapped his watch on, the conversation one they'd already had no shortage of times before. "Ready for breakfast?"

Making no move towards the door, she turned to stare at him, face white and lips set in a thin line.

Exasperated, Philip shook his head. "What exactly do you propose we do? Directly defy orders? On our first assignment when we haven't even made it into the country yet?"

"We could be doing more." She gestured with one hand. "Looking for something useful to send back once we're in place. Show the Centre we can produce results even when things don't go as planned. Not just sitting in restaurants trying their food and wandering through the streets like we have nothing better to do than shop for souvenirs. After everything they went through to train us, all those years spent in preparation, we can't just-"

"Look." Folding his arms, he studied her face. "We're here however long it takes them to get our passports in order. Then we get settled in the U.S. and start gathering intelligence for real. While we're stuck here, it only makes sense to learn as much as we can so there aren't any slip-ups later. We're supposed to blend in, make it believable."

Elizabeth stared at him, eyes wide.

"It doesn't bother you at all?" Frustration bled into her tone. "How arrogant they are? Watching how much they waste, leave on their plates after every meal to just be thrown away, not caring there are people elsewhere who are starving? And we're just supposed to go along with it? That doesn't make you-"

"No." Not flinching, he shook his head. "It's what they sent us here to do."

For a moment, neither moved. She set her jaw, grabbing her sweater off the bed. He locked the door to their motel room and reached for her hand. Elizabeth shot him a look, not smiling as they headed towards the diner across the road.

"Morning, Steve."

Turning, Philip assumed an easy grin and gave the manager a nod. "Joe. How's it going?"

"No complaints."

Philip smiled and slid his hand to Elizabeth's back.

She didn't react, waiting until they reached the street to remark under her breath, "I see you've made a new friend."

The note of sarcasm in her tone was hard to miss. Glancing both ways, he dropped the hand from her back. "He was out there the other night having a cigarette. We started talking."

She grunted quietly. "That's helpful."

He shook his head. "As helpful as you driving by the park five times a day? Waking me up every morning combing through the newspapers as if after less than a week here, _you're_ going to spot some crucial piece of intelligence the Rezidentura officers don't?"

At the far side of the road, Elizabeth turned on her heel and glared up at him. "At least I'm _doing_ something." Face inches from his, she bit off each word. "You seem to think you were sent here for vacation."

The accusation hung in the air between them, the hardness in her eyes declaring she wasn't the least bit sorry for having made it. He stared at her, as tempted to correct her English as fire back a retort, the former far surer to incense her. Lifting her chin when he didn't respond, she brushed past him, tone authoritative.

"We should hurry up and have breakfast so we can get to work."

"Good idea," he muttered, trailing a few steps behind. "Maybe if we ask, they'll let us have a copy of the menu for you to send home. I'm sure the Centre would be fascinated to learn what kind of eggs you can get here."

She froze and turned slowly to face him. Not backing down, he watched incredulity flood her features, the disappointment in her eyes impossible to mask. She shook her head, giving him one final look of disgust before stalking away.

* * *

The following day was cold and gray, a dull headache from a bad night's sleep doing little to improve his mood. Lingering just inside the door, Philip dropped his keys on the table and slid out of his coat.

"I'm home." He paused, waiting seconds for a response that didn't come.

The oven door closed with a thump in the kitchen, Elizabeth's voice carrying over the sound of the vent. "I already asked you once to set the table."

A chair scraped the floor, the metallic clink of silverware being picked from the drawer one piece at a time undoubtedly Henry.

Philip swallowed. They hadn't spoken on the ride in to work, nor most of the morning, passing paperwork back and forth with as few words as possible. It wasn't until lunchtime rolled around that he finally conceded their standoff, asking in a low voice if she wanted to take a walk and get some air. She regarded him with a cool expression that served only to twist the knife deeper, announcing she had meetings and would be catching the Metro home.

Henry looked up warily when he entered the kitchen, their morning spat over the thermos clearly not forgotten. Sighing, Philip tousled his hair and reached over to take the silverware.

"Go tell your sister dinner's ready."

Henry glanced up at him, but didn't move away, edging closer like he wanted a hug. Setting the silverware on the table, Philip leaned over to tickle him. Clinging to him for a moment, Henry peered carefully across the room.

"She's not allowed to come down."

Not meeting his eyes, Elizabeth set her mouth and stirred butter into the green beans. Philip frowned, giving Henry's back a pat.

"Run upstairs and get her."

Waiting until he was gone, Elizabeth lowered her voice. "Her French teacher called a little while ago. She caught her copying on the quiz this morning."

Philip exhaled, leaning against the counter.

"And she's sure that's what-"

"Paige told me she did it." Brushing past him, she put the bowl of green beans on the table. "Did you remember to go over the assignment with her last night?"

Staring at her back, he grunted. Elizabeth salted the potatoes and poured in a dash of milk, all but ignoring him. He shook his head and pushed away from the counter.

"Why don't I go up there, have a talk with her before-"

"I already did," she interrupted. Turning from the stove, she handed him the hot pads and pointed to the meatloaf, something in her eyes almost daring him to challenge her.

He didn't respond, refusing to take the bait.

Dinner involved a good deal of pushing meatloaf around plates and very little conversation. Waiting until Henry went upstairs, Elizabeth turned to Paige.

"No TV or phone until you bring your grade up. And if we ever catch you lying to us again, you'll be grounded for a month." She raised an eyebrow. "Are we clear?"

Paige nodded, eyes glued to her uneaten pile of mashed potatoes.

Philip took a breath. "Go upstairs and get started on your homework."

She cleared her plate without looking at either of them, a sniffle sounding from the sink. Sipping her wine, Elizabeth stared off into nowhere. He glanced over at her.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." She rose to clear the table. "We got a message over the wireless. Meeting tonight with Grannie at eight. In the park."

He studied her profile. "You want me to take it or-?"

"No." She loaded the plates into the dishwasher and flipped off the water. "If the kids ask, tell them I went to pick up a prescription. You'll make sure she goes over French?"

"Yeah."

"Good." She met his eyes, tone indicating the state of things between them was anything but.

Not reacting, he waited until she left the room to toss the dishtowel on the counter.

Their relationship, for what it was, had been different from the start. She was the last thing he'd expected . . . beautiful, staunchly determined, and seemingly immune to all efforts to get her to smile. Drawn to her in a way he could no sooner have admitted than explained, he couldn't help but search for cracks in her seemingly impenetrable exterior, something in the mystery behind unfathomable gray-green eyes only intriguing him more.

Partners in every sense of the word, she was the only one from whom he didn't have to keep secrets. She knew the lies he told, what move he would make in the field even before he could react, the way his breath smelled in the morning and how he liked his eggs. Intimacy at first forced partially by circumstance, over time it grew to be a source of comfort. She was the only one who knew the guilt that crept in, trapped him in the worst moments, what they were asked to do at times not only unthinkable, but inhuman. It was her hands that coaxed the tension from his neck as he sat in their kitchen, the pain barely numbed after too many glasses of scotch, her voice clear and steady as day, whispering it wasn't his fault, that she knew he'd never meant for things to go so wrong. The only one who could understand, she didn't have to ask why he retreated into himself, unable to shrug it off to duty or necessity, on the occasion they had to take a life.

Captivating him in a way no woman ever had, it was the most bittersweet of ironies that she refused even to incline her chin in his direction, voice never more devoid of emotion than the night she informed him they were to begin sleeping together. She was quick to remind him when he got too close that every second they spent together on U.S. soil was for their cover, nothing more, that they were there to do a job, _Philip Jennings _an entity than existed no more than _Scott_ or _Steve_.

It was her pregnancy with Paige that had marked a turning point, throwing the falsity of everything else into sharp relief. Aware she'd stopped taking her pills months before, her announcement they'd conceived nonetheless stirred something unexpected inside him, a sudden, fierce protectiveness hard to subdue. Unable to stomach the thought of something happening to either of them, he couldn't help but worry about her safety the second she left the house, fighting the desperate compulsion to follow at a distance even knowing he would pay for it for weeks if she spotted the tail. The intensity of it stopped him cold, forcing him to acknowledge what had formed without notice or intent, their contrived identities no longer just that, slowly becoming . . . real.

His wife. _His_ child growing in the beautiful, ripening curve of her belly, a marriage that was supposed to appear genuine and feel false forging something between them he hadn't expected, the place they occupied together one he felt no desire ever to leave. For the first time in his life, something rooted him firmly in place. Her husband, their father, his truest reflection.

He could see, even now, that it scared her. That the thought of defining what was happening between them, questioning what it was coming to mean to her and what it had for much longer meant to him, frightened her in a way she didn't want to admit. It was there in the way she let her hair obscure her face when he came up behind her to kiss her neck, a subtle shyness in her tendency to close her eyes before he did when they made love. He never wanted to be anywhere else, had no desire to retreat, by force of habit, to a safer place in the back of his mind to speed the mechanics along. It was the one time he could linger in it, let his guard down and allow the intimacy of what they were doing wash over him, feel the heat of her breath and the softness of her legs clutched around his hips, in that moment, Philip Jennings the only man he'd ever been.

Rubbing his face, he straightened up. The house was quiet, everyone having retreated to private corners to lick their wounds. Digging a Hershey bar out of the box at the bottom of the freezer, he snapped it into thirds and headed upstairs.

"Hey."

Leaning through the doorway to Henry's room, he tossed him part of the chocolate. Henry sat up on the bed and grinned, catching it. Winking, Philip reached for the door.

"Make sure to brush your teeth."

Paige was in her pajamas, curled up under the covers with her French book and the old stuffed bear that had more recently taken up residence in Henry's room. She looked away when he rapped on the door, eyes red and puffy. He sat on the end of her bed and broke off a square of chocolate. Paige accepted it, fresh tears welling in her eyes.

Philip said nothing, just stuck his piece in his mouth. After a moment, Paige did the same. Finally she wiped her cheeks, rubbing one of Mr. Bear's ears.

"I knew it was wrong." Pressing her lips together, she swallowed. "I felt awful as soon as I did it."

He nodded silently and broke off another piece of chocolate.

"So why do it?" He said it softly, not an accusation.

Paige shrugged, hugging Mr. Bear tighter. "I didn't know the answers. I knew you and Mom would be mad when you saw the grade. That you'd ground me."

He glanced up at her. "This feel any better?"

"No." Voice breaking, she wiped her nose. "I'm sorry."

Offering her another square of chocolate, he gestured over at her desk. "So did you not understand the assignment, or-?"

"No . . . I do now." Paige fiddled with the edge of her comforter. "It's just . . . sometimes it's been hard to concentrate lately, you know? With school and all."

"Sure."

Suspecting the answer had more to do with the Beeman kid from across the street than he would've preferred, he nonetheless didn't push. Paige dried her eyes on the sleeve of her pajamas.

"Where'd mom go?"

"The drugstore." He pushed off the bed and bent to kiss the top of her head. "Study for a bit longer and then we'll review before lights out."

Picking at Mr. Bear's fur, Paige nodded.

Philip paused at the door, waiting until she looked up at him. "I love you."

She flashed him a quavering smile, eyes once again bright. "I love you too, Daddy."

It was well after nine before Elizabeth returned. Slipping in the front door quietly, she hung up her coat and came into the kitchen, jaw tightening when she saw him at the table. She took a white paper pharmacy bag out of her purse, setting it out on the counter for the kids to find in the morning.

"You didn't have to wait up."

He stared at his drink, swirling the ice cube around the glass for a minute before setting it aside. Resisting the urge to point out it was so early even Paige wasn't asleep, he cleared his throat. "So what'd Grannie say?"

"She'll get us the information on license plates and base locations." Elizabeth propped a hand on her hip. "We'll have to park somewhere we can monitor the exit, wait until one of them passes."

"Won't be easy getting in the trunk."

"No," she agreed, looking down. "I'll signal Gregory in the morning, let him know we need cars."

Not reacting outwardly, Philip finished the last of his scotch. Elizabeth met his eyes, silently warning him not to follow as she strode from the room.

* * *

The morning alone was surprisingly pleasant, the day sunny and slightly cool. Taking the bus into town after breakfast, Philip wandered the streets for a few hours, had coffee in one of the shops and pretended to leaf through the paper, just listening.

His ability to mimic accents had been what initially caught the attention of his superiors, the struggles the rest of his training class encountered over the subtle difference in _bat_ and _bet_ of little difficulty to him. Quickly moved up into a more specialized group, he was given intensive instruction, a native speaker brought in to assist with lectures. Introduced to them only as _John_, he read aloud from textbooks and newspapers to allow them to absorb tone and the nuance of his inflection, later carefully identifying and correcting flaws in their speech through staged conversations.

Immediately curious how he'd come to be there, they all knew better than to ask. A strange, nervous man, his clothes smelled strongly of smoke and his breath of alcohol, the unexplained jumpiness in his manner an instant caution. He was ushered away at the end of each class to locations unknown, someone always following at a distance, his hand quick to fumble for the flask in his breast pocket as soon as his time with them was over. Watching him exit the room each day, shoulders stiff and eyes down, it was sometime during the second week he was struck by the irrefutable suspicion his name had never been John at all.

To sit in a park or café and observe the way they interacted was far more useful. There was a subtlety to the rhythm of it difficult to convey in lessons alone, more than just what was said, but the manner in which it was delivered. Which words they chose and which were lazily omitted. The phrases they'd all learned by rote correct in a purely grammatical sense, they lacked the careless fluidity of a natural exchange, a slip of that sort arousing curiosity they couldn't afford.

He left the coffee shop just before noon, meandering over to the restaurant by the river for a cold beer and his first steak. Casually flipping through an auto magazine from the newsstand, he caught a reflection in his water glass of a slim figure in a dark plaid dress. He let her slip up behind him, waiting until she was within feet of his shoulder to speak.

"Guess you found it okay."

Not responding, Elizabeth dropped her purse in the next chair and slid into the seat across from him. She didn't return his smile, but leaned forward and stole his water.

"Nine o'clock. Tonight."

He reached for his beer. "It came?"

She nodded and took another drink, obvious relief and a dash of excitement he knew she never would've admitted to flashing in her eyes. "I-"

Cutting off abruptly when the waitress approached with a menu, she smiled in a disarming way and tucked her hair behind one ear. "Thank you." She leaned over to him, lowering her voice. "What did you order?"

"A steak."

Expecting her to balk at the extravagance, he was surprised when she simply handed back the menu. "I will have the same. And also a beer."

He took another sip of his beer, not saying anything. Elizabeth frowned, nodding slowly as she spoke.

"We can't let them down. We were chosen to do this. It's important."

Not responding for a moment, he leaned forward to rest his arms on the table. "It's important to me too."

Her beer came. Taking a sip, she met his eyes.

"I don't want us to fail before we're even inserted."

"Neither do I." He glanced over one shoulder. "But you know as well as I do we're going to have to learn to work together in the field, develop a rhythm as partners, or this will never work. No one's going to buy us as a married couple if we can't even sit through breakfast together without getting in a fight. All the time they spent training us was for _this_. So we could fit in, pass as one of them and use that to our advantage."

Elizabeth looked away. He fiddled with the beer bottle, continuing in a softer voice.

"That's what we should be using this time to do. Figuring out how they talk, how they act, and how they _think_. The more we can immerse ourselves in understanding them, in _becoming_ them, the better we can do our jobs."

Elizabeth turned to stare at him.

"_Becoming_ them?" She whispered it incredulously, almost an accusation.

Philip sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Not _becoming_ them, exactly . . . but being inside their heads. Learning their weaknesses and how to think the same way they do so we can predict their next move. This is the perfect chance, while we're stuck here, to _really_ get a feel for how they do things. No one knows us here and we won't be staying. If we slip up, make a mistake, it won't be remembered. This is the time to practice and see what works . . . and what makes people suspicious."

Straightening when their food came, Philip smiled at the waitress and reached for his napkin. He waited for Elizabeth to cut off a small piece of her steak, watching as she tried her first taste.

"So, what do you think?" He took a bite, savoring the smoky flavor of it.

She swallowed and sipped her beer, finally shrugging. "It isn't bad. I'll probably be sick after I finish it all. We should have ordered just one of them."

Pretending to eye her suspiciously, he pulled his plate a little closer. Staring at him in surprise for a second, Elizabeth quickly covered her mouth and looked away, but not before he caught her smiling. She cleared her throat and cut off another bite.

"I'll finish yours if you can't," he offered, winking.

Narrowing her eyes, she shook her head. They finished eating in silence. She traced her fingertips over the tablecloth once the waitress cleared their plates.

"It's . . . different than I expected." She stared out at the river. "Being here."

He studied her face. "Sure."

She folded her napkin, taking more time than was necessary in the task. He offered nothing more, hearing in her silence the part she wouldn't say aloud, unable to reject the sudden suspicion she wouldn't have bothered making up with him if there was any other option for company. Clearing his throat, he glanced around them.

"We should stop on the way back to the motel, pick up a souvenir or two so we'll be ready to leave first thing."

"Yeah." Voice returning to normal, Elizabeth sat up straighter and nodded.

By the time evening rolled around, the tension had dissipated, planning the particulars of an assignment the one thing they seemed capable of doing without fighting. Knotting her jacket, Elizabeth tied her hair back and put her hand out for the keys to the Mercury.

"I'll drive."

Biting back the urge to point out how rarely they'd seen the female half of any couple behind the wheel since arriving, he dropped the keys in her hand. She drove them into town and made a pass around the meeting site, parking the car a few blocks away.

"Looks clear," he murmured, surveying the street behind them. "You sure-"

"It's almost nine," Elizabeth interrupted, checking her watch. "You need to go." She paused, nodding at him. "Good luck."

Philip reached for the door. The streets were less crowded than during the day, sparse pockets of mildly intoxicated tourists talking loudly as they passed. Sticking both hands in his pockets, he wandered up the hill to the bus stop and took a seat on the bench.

It didn't take long. Their contact would've caught his attention even if it hadn't been for the gray scarf or newspaper in his hand, the nervous way he kept peering over one shoulder alarmingly obvious to anyone who knew what to look for.

_"Shit." _

Muttering it under his breath, Philip pulled out a cigarette. He lit it and sat back on the bench, not bothering to glance off to the north, knowing she'd see.

The man came over to him and cleared his throat. "You don't mind if I sit here, do you? My wife won't let me smoke in our motel room."

Philip shook his head, the telltale way he stumbled over the second sentence a better confirmation than any code phrase could provide. "Join the club."

Their embassy contact set the newspaper between them and dug into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. Philip hunched his shoulders when the wind gusted, making a quick scan of the street.

"Guy in the brown coat." He said it quietly, not turning his head. "Off to the left. Ten o'clock. He been following you?"

"I don't know."

To his credit, he didn't look this time. Philip took another drag on his cigarette, tapping it on the bench as the bus lumbered around the corner. He waited until it was within twenty feet and reached down to collect the newspaper, muttering under his breath.

"Wait a minute and then head the other direction. Don't follow me."

Stuffing the folded newspaper into his jacket, he turned up his collar. The bus groaned and huffed, pulling to a clumsy stop. A couple got off and then a man, the latter tall enough to block him as he quietly slid into a seat. Hunching lower as if he were tired, Philip halfway closed his eyes, surreptitiously checking back to see if their contact was blown as he was carried off into the night.

* * *

"Keep the change."

Pushing a few bucks across the counter, Philip grabbed the bag and two coffees. The rain had stopped, the early evening air misty but cool. Carefully scanning both sides of the street, he stepped off the curb.

Not willing to risk parking in the same location they'd used earlier that morning, he'd picked a spot two blocks closer to the Metro. She saw him as soon as she cleared the line of trees hanging over the road, a brief hitch in her pace matching the sudden thinness of her mouth. He pushed away from the car and handed her one of the Styrofoam cups.

"You okay?"

"Fine." She accepted the coffee, commenting over one shoulder, "You didn't have to pick me up."

He shook his head, not bothering to point out that if he'd thought she was in any real danger, she would've seen him coming rather than the other way around.

"Didn't have to bring you coffee either. Or a vanilla crème doughnut."

For once, humor worked. Their eyes met over the top of the car, a smile tugging at her lips. Climbing into the car, she turned to face him, the tilt of her mouth no longer angry.

He looked down, taking a moment to compose himself. "I'm sorry about before."

Shifting in the seat, she leaned back. When she finally spoke, her voice was hesitant, thoughtful. "You know, we have to do all sorts of things for our work." Pausing, she shook her head. "And it requires being a certain way."

Philip frowned. "What exactly are you talking about?"

Staring out the window, she waited a minute before answering. "You know what I wish, as I fall asleep every night?" She swallowed, voice softer. "That I'll wake up . . . and not be worried."

He studied her profile. "About what?"

She exhaled, eyes far away. "Everything."

It was the weight of it that struck him more than the answer itself. He knew she worried, listened to her breathing grow tight and contained beside him in bed as she whispered to him about Paige's preoccupation with legwarmers or Henry's lack of effort in school, trivial concerns swirling in a perpetual maelstrom around the one outcome she didn't want to think about, fears for their future keeping her from sleep. All of it kept locked away in a cold, private place, no one she could share it with but him.

Careful to keep his voice even, Philip took a breath. "You can't live like that." The statement was gentle, the farthest thing from an accusation.

Elizabeth turned to stare at him, face open and eyes soft. "Show me another way."

He nodded slowly, after a moment starting the car. They rode in silence, Elizabeth's stomach giving a muffled growl before she unfolded the bag and carefully extracted her doughnut. She nibbled off a bite, flurries of powdered sugar sprinkling over her jacket and sticking to her upper lip. Philip smiled, quickly turning when she looked his way.

"What?"

"Nothing," he murmured, straight-faced.

She smiled over at him. "You want yours?"

He shook his head. "I'm just gonna get chocolate all over the car."

"Here." Balancing the coffee between her knees, she dug into the bag and pulled him off a bite.

He leaned over at the next light, letting her poke it in his mouth. She licked the chocolate from her fingers and took a sip of coffee.

"I'm surprised you waited."

"Almost didn't." He shrugged, cheek twitching. "You always did walk kinda slow."

She narrowed her eyes, a smile forming at her lips. "Did you talk to Paige?"

"Yeah." He slowed with traffic. "She made a dumb mistake. Don't think she'll do it again."

Elizabeth was silent. She wiped her mouth with one finger. "Lately she's been so . . . up and down. One minute things are fine and the next . . ."

"Yeah, well, she's at that age." He glanced in the mirror and turned into the garage.

Elizabeth closed her eyes. "It's more than that . . . she doesn't have any _direction_. Nothing driving her. _Nothing_ she's truly passionate about. She just . . . goes along with whatever's happening at the time. And that's dangerous."

"I think you're making a big deal outta nothing." He pulled into a spot and shut off the engine, turning to her. "She's fine. One dumb screw-up isn't the end of the world."

Shaking her head, Elizabeth pushed her hair back. "It's late. They'll be getting hungry by now."

"Yeah." Philip checked his watch. "I'll wipe the car down while you change, find a pay phone and tell them we got stuck in a late meeting. Maybe have Paige wait twenty minutes, then call in a pizza we can pick up." He cleared his throat, fingering the car keys. "We okay?"

A smile twitched at her lips. Looking down, she nodded. "Yeah."

"Yeah?"

He leaned closer, watching her smile grow. They kissed softly, slow to come together as they were to ease apart. She touched his cheek, mouth still twisted up at the corners.

He scooted over and kissed her neck. "You wanna make up later?"

She giggled, fingers curling in his hair.

"Mm-hmm."

Voice low, he pulled her closer, hands sliding to her waist. "You wanna make up now?"

Giggling again, she shoved his shoulder and dug in his pocket for the keys to the Oldsmobile, giving him one final kiss before reaching for the door.

* * *

He would've recognized her footsteps even if they hadn't been the only two people in the chapel at that time of night, something in the authoritative way she walked an anomaly among women. Elizabeth stopped just inside the doorway, waiting.

Pushing up from the pew, Philip stuck his hands in his pockets. "Took your time."

"Do you want to walk the rest of the way?"

He smiled at her back, shaking his head as they walked out to the car. It had started raining by the time he'd gotten off the bus a mile away, a rumble of thunder in the distance promising more to come. Elizabeth dropped the keys in his hand, tucking her hair behind one ear before climbing into the passenger seat.

"Did you get them?"

"Yeah." He passed her the folded newspaper and started the car. "They're good."

"Anything else?" She slipped their new passports into her purse, squinting at the newspaper in the faint light from streetlamps.

"Didn't have a chance to check it." He glanced her way. "The guy in the brown coat?"

"Kept walking."

Relieved, he nodded. "Good."

She switched on the lamp as soon as they were back at the motel, taking off her sweater and slipping out of her heels. She grabbed a pencil and pad from her suitcase and sat at the edge of the bed. Philip took off his wet coat and undid a button at his collar, dropping the keys on the dresser.

"So?"

"Part of the crossword is filled out." Clearly excited, she looked up at him. "You have it?"

"Yeah." Taking a seat beside her on the bed, he unlaced his shoes. The false lining popped out easily enough, the slip of paper containing the cypher carefully hidden inside.

Elizabeth took it from him, their fingers brushing. Pushing her hair back, she bent closer to see it better, brow furrowed as she worked. Philip propped one hand a respectful distance behind her on the bed and leaned closer to watch over her shoulder, pleased when she made no objection.

Closer than she'd yet allowed him, it was hard not to notice she smelled good, hair swishing lightly back and forth with every letter she leaned over to fill in. He let his eyes drift to her shoulder, the skin at the base of her neck soft and pale with a small, round mole tucked near the edge of her hairline. Distracted in wondering if her throat would feel warm under his lips if he leaned forward to press a kiss there, he quickly sat up when she turned his way.

"I was worried," she shook her head, blinking, "as soon as I saw him. He was so obvious. That he hadn't spent any time in the field."

"Yeah." Philip stole a glance at her bare arm while she wrote, eyes settling where her elbow rested near the narrow cinch of her waist. Squinting, he rubbed his face, trying not to imagine what she looked like without clothes on. "Probably one of the embassy officers they thought no one would bother with. Least it worked out okay."

He leaned back over her shoulder as she continued decoding the message, lying if he said it was for any purpose other than getting closer. Her ponytail swayed gently, inches away, the thought of toying with it while they kissed more than a little tempting.

Pausing suddenly in her work, Elizabeth looked down, fingers curling nervously at her neck. "I can do it," clearly uncomfortable, the words were halting, "if you need to pack your things."

He studied her profile, careful to keep his voice soft. "Sure."

Rising from the bed, he dug his Dopp kit and a clean change of clothes from his suitcase, more . . . _agitated_ than he should've been. He stepped into the shower, allowing a minute for the hot water to stream over his back before he braced himself against the wall and reached down, letting his hand finish the job.

Elizabeth had her luggage open when he came out, clothes neatly spread across her side of the bed. Casting a look at him, she hurriedly stuffed something lacy under a blouse. He kept his head down, putting his things in the suitcase. Another round of thunder rumbled in the distance, rain pattering against the eaves outside.

"They want us to take the bus across." She glanced up at him when he turned to flip on the TV set. "Think it's safer if we wait to get on a train once we get to Buffalo."

"Sure." Relaxed, he flopped on the bed and stuck an arm behind his head, watching her pack. "Is that what you bought? Can I see?"

She passed across something heavy wrapped in brown paper. Unwrapping it, he turned the strange, yellow glass vase over in his hands, trying to come up with something to say.

"It's nice."

She shrugged and put out a hand to take it back. "We had to have something in case they go through our bags at Customs."

He studied her face, unsure if she'd chosen it because she liked the color or because she felt it was the gaudiest item in the store, the last thing she herself ever would've chosen, and therefore exactly what some American woman would've bought for her home. Propping himself on one elbow, he watched her fold a dress and tuck it neatly in place.

"We did it."

Elizabeth met his eyes, offering a brief smile. "We should have breakfast early tomorrow, catch the first bus."

He nodded, humoring her. "Sure."

Taking more time than was necessary in gathering her robe and the things for her shower, she looked down, clearly waiting for him to make some excuse to leave the room. He turned towards the window, uneager to spend half an hour outside in the rain.

"You mind if I watch a little TV?" He kept his voice low, not wanting to spark another disagreement.

Something he couldn't read twitching in her cheek, she ran a nervous hand through her hair, finally shrugging. He settled back against the pillows, turning his attention to the news program as the bathroom door quietly shut behind her.

* * *

**Reviews are like having sixteen pairs of legwarmers . . .**


	6. Chapter 6: Trust Me

Content Warning: This chapter contains potentially sensitive subject matter including torture and Elizabeth's history as a rape survivor. Please be advised if these are triggering topics for you.

* * *

**Chapter Six: Trust Me**

It always started with a morning too still and tranquil to trust, the softest creak from the far side of the house setting her on edge. Eyes locked on the ceiling for a long moment, she quietly picked up the knife.

Light streamed in through the high, arched window over the stairs, the floor cool and smooth under her toes. Barely breathing, she crept forward, inching her way along a wall lined with large paintings in dark, heavy frames. He'd teased her for them once, back when they'd first decorated the house, accused her of a penchant for solitary forests and vast, empty landscapes. A smile quirking at his lips as he suggested it, by then she knew better than to respond, with him even the most innocuous of questions a subtle effort to nose into places he knew he wasn't allowed.

Wary, she nudged open the bedroom door. A bottle of perfume lay tipped on its side on the dresser, bumped on accident while she put the towels away, or perhaps when Philip had stumbled sleepily to the shower. Frowning, she straightened it, barely catching a subtle movement in the mirror. The shadow seemed to materialize out of nowhere in a corner she'd already checked, footsteps she hadn't heard rushing up from behind as a hand shot out to grab her.

Falling back on their training, she turned into the attack. A clumsy fog obscured her vision, the unknown assailants dark and indistinct. Her arms and legs felt made of lead, weighing her down, slowing each punch and kick. There were too many of them. Too strong. Too fast. One of them grabbed her by the throat, the sudden, incomprehensible panic that came with lack of air suffocating her in a sickening wave. She lashed out, flailing, unable to reach. Something struck her hard in the face.

She came to on the floor, arms she couldn't push off holding her down, pants bunched around her knees. Just like before, Philip was tied to a chair at the far end of the room, eyes dead and shoulders slumped. He would be forced to watch while they did it, each of the guards having a turn before leaving her there, hands bound, cheek rubbed raw where it pressed against the cold concrete.

And then they would ask Philip again, all the same questions, him, not her, knowing he was the soft one, the one who would break. Him, the one she'd warned them shouldn't be trusted, who felt nothing strongly, not commitment, not devotion, even the way he _talked_ shifting to a lazy American drawl as he traded sports statistics with the salesman at the auto dealership. She'd seen the silent calculation in his eyes the day they moved into their house, walked from the kitchen through the dining room to a backyard larger than their entire apartment in Smolensk, marveling at the extravagance of so much unneeded space. It seemed all but inevitable the moment would one day come he'd decide it was more convenient to be one of them, to enjoy their large, ugly cars and loud music, tenuous loyalties bought and sold for the price of a cheap beer and flavorless American hotdog.

They could've done anything to her. Beaten her for days. Left her cold and starving in a cell. It wouldn't have mattered, whatever pain they might inflict serving only to prove once and for all Zhukov had been right in choosing her above all the others, trusting she would die before betraying the country she'd pledged her life to defend.

But despite that resolve, she lay on the damp warehouse floor sick with dread. That they'd eventually tire of using her after hours, days. That Philip wouldn't crack. That one of the guards would be ordered to bring another chair, would drag her, pants still down, across the floor before tying her up alongside him. Her worst fear reflected in the pale, lifeless gray of Philip's eyes, they'd wait together while the interrogator casually lit a cigarette and took a long drag, pacing a few steps before, in a voice careless enough to inform them he'd have no qualms following through, sending someone to go get Paige.

Throat closing in panic, she tried to suck in a breath, unable to break free. Her hand struck something cold and hard. Water sloshed, a muffled thump following seconds later. Jerking awake, Elizabeth threw off the covers and fumbled for the lamp.

Light flooded the room, ominous shadows in the corner resolving into the dresser and chair. Heart pounding like an angry drum, Elizabeth raked the hair off her face, the burn ripping through her chest sickening in its strength. Wrapping both arms around her middle, she slid out of bed.

Her fallen water glass had rolled across the floor, the bottom of one sock getting soaked as she hurried to the end of the hall. Henry didn't stir when she crept over to his bed, arms strewn at odd angles around his face as if he'd been fighting off attempts to comb his hair even while asleep. Tears forming in her eyes, she smoothed his bangs, the mop of thick, straight hair the one thing he'd gotten from her rather than Philip. Swallowing, she tucked his beloved Star Wars blankets in place and backed away.

Paige required more caution, a lighter sleeper from the time she was a baby. Cracking the door just enough, Elizabeth stared at her back, watching the slow rise and fall of shoulders so angular they could've been hers. Her hair spilled out over the pillows, the thick, auburn mane she'd once plaited into braids for the first day of school long and lustrous. Hopping around the kitchen all morning in a pair of shiny red shoes Philip bought in honor of the occasion, Paige had wiggled in excitement to the point she could barely be captured long enough to twist on the rubber bands, darting away to grab her lunchbox the second she was freed.

A lump formed in her throat, the choking dread from before still lingering in the darkest corner of her mind. Screwing her eyes shut, Elizabeth wiped her cheeks and forced it back, quietly slipping out the door.

Philip was at the top of the stairs when she turned. Flinching, she clutched the neck of her nightgown and glared. He looked awful, hair disheveled, pajamas twisted crookedly at his hips, face lined and ashy. The bruises on his stomach had darkened to mottled blots of green and purple, ugly marks staining pale, tender skin. He'd taken no pains to hide them, shirt off when they crossed paths at night, the less than subtle attempt to provoke guilt only incensing her more.

Shaking her head in disgust, Elizabeth stalked past him without a backward glance, getting the door shut behind her just as her nose began to burn. She covered her mouth with one hand and slumped against the wall, tears streaming hot and pathetic down both cheeks. Chest squeezed by a giant fist, she could barely breathe, the pressure forcing itself harder and tighter until the weight threatened to crush her. Furious, she dragged her wrist under her nose and pushed away from the wall, going to the bathroom for a towel to clean up the spilled water.

At just past five in the morning, their house was silent as a tomb, the groan of the shower turning on an ugly intrusion. Pushing everything else from her mind, she stepped under the spray and let the hot water stream through her hair, fighting to keep her chin steady.

Some part of her always understood it wasn't real, that the four of them were safe in their beds and would come downstairs to breakfast to engage in a litany of arguments over forgotten homework and misplaced library books. Paige would beg to wear a skirt that was too short while Henry absently stirred milk around his cereal bowl, Philip frowning at the sports section and blithely ignoring the chaos until she pushed a jar of peanut butter into his hand.

That knowledge brought no comfort. Better than anyone, she understood the lengths they would go to, a threat Paige and Henry couldn't imagine hovering in every shadow, spying on them from a crevice between the bookshelves behind the TV and tracking innocent handfuls of bread tossed at a flock of scraggly ducks as they spent the day with Philip in the park. It was what happened the moment loyalty was called into question, when personal greed became more important than a vow solemnly sworn, traitors vanishing in the dead of night never to be heard from again. Balling her hand into a fist, Elizabeth pressed it to the cold tile, hating him all the more for the danger he'd put them in.

She climbed from the shower in a fog and set her hair without thinking. Hands no longer shaking by the time she got out her makeup, she turned to the mirror. Still a little tender, the mark above her cheek had faded to the point it could be covered, Paige and Henry's eyes no longer widening in concern when they glanced her way. Swallowing, she dabbed a bit of concealer, leaning closer to the mirror to dot it on.

The plastic makeup tray fumbled in her fingers and fell, the lid breaking off as it clattered on the hard tile. Cursing, Elizabeth stooped to retrieve the pieces, a sudden wave of dizziness forcing her to grapple for the bathtub's edge.

She'd come to on the floor, already gagged. Hands tied and head throbbing where they'd slammed her in the face, a glimpse of wide black loafers against the pale wood of the hallway floor was the last thing she saw before they jerked the hood on and dragged her down the stairs.

They took her out through the garage, the load of laundry she'd put in after breakfast still tumbling quietly on the other side of the adjoining wall. She was thrown in the back of the Oldsmobile with every bit of the care they'd taken with Timoshev. Her head banged roughly against the far door, lingering remnants of a chocolate malt she'd once made the mistake of allowing Henry to finish on the way home from the mall mixing with the smell of dirt and shoes in the floor mats as she struggled in vain to loosen the ropes at her wrists. Only later had she realized the note of satisfaction her captors must've felt at seeing her lying there, bound on the floor of the very car the Centre had provided them for their cover, a filthy traitor.

Gritting her teeth, Elizabeth threw the broken makeup tray in the trash and pushed it all from her mind. Philip was standing at the sink when she came into the kitchen, a cup of coffee resting untouched on the counter by his hand. Staring blankly out at the falling snow, he sucked in a fast, tight breath when she came up behind him. She began getting out things for breakfast, reaching around him into the cabinet for an extra cup. Never once looking her way, Philip poured his coffee down the sink and left the room. Not reacting, she set her jaw and gave the bowl of eggs a vicious thrash with the fork.

Henry trudged downstairs first. Yawning, he propped an elbow on the table. She put a glass of orange juice in front of him and hurried back to the stove to stir the eggs. He rotated the glass in slow circles, offering no sign of planning to drink it by the time Paige finally appeared. Face falling at the sight of breakfast, she pointed to the top of the fridge.

"Can I just have cereal?"

Stopping halfway to the table, Elizabeth shook her head. "I already made this. You can have cereal tomorrow." Leaning over, she dished scrambled eggs onto three plates. "Do you want milk or orange juice with breakfast?"

Folding her arms, Paige shrugged. "Then I'm not hungry."

Elizabeth closed her eyes and lowered the pan. "Come sit down," she ordered. Tapping Henry's shoulder, she shot him a look. "Take your elbows off the table and drink your juice."

She took the pan to the sink, careful to keep her head down when Philip came in with the paper. He refilled his coffee cup and grabbed the plate of bacon.

"Mom, did my jacket get dry?"

Taking a quick sip of coffee, Elizabeth nodded. "It's in the laundry. I'll get it in a sec."

She pulled out peanut butter and bread for lunches, waiting until Philip had a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth to clear her throat. Shaking his head in obvious annoyance, he pushed his plate away and rose from the table.

Downstairs, she yanked the laundry from the dryer, an unsettling pit forming in her chest the second the task of folding grew mundane. Fighting it back, she closed her eyes, forcing her head to clear. Her elbow knocked the stack of towels, sending them careening to the floor.

_"Shit."_

Wanting to hurl the laundry basket into the wall, she covered her mouth with one hand. Philip didn't look up when she returned with a stack of towels on one hip. Stuffing them into the drawer beside the sink, she pushed it closed and handed the jacket over to Paige.

"It might be a little cold for you to-"

She froze in mid-sentence, staring at two bowls and a freshly opened box of Frosted Flakes. Paige set her spoon down. It took three breaths before she could speak.

"I told you _no_ cereal." She barely kept her voice level, lip beginning to tremble in anger.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Philip shake his head, the gesture serving only to infuriate her more. Paige stared back at her, tone doused in false innocence.

"Dad said I could."

Philip's voice held a warning. "Paige-"

Ignoring him, she grabbed their bowls and marched them over to the sink, dumping the contents down the garbage disposal. Eyes on their placemats, Paige and Henry didn't move. Elizabeth set her jaw and gripped the counter.

"Find your backpacks and get in the car."

Philip looked down once they were gone, dropping his fork on the plate. "She didn't tell me you-"

She ignored him and lifted her chin. "You have a meeting with Grannie later?"

He exhaled. "Yeah. You want me to pass anything along?"

She shook her head, pushing away from the counter to collect Paige and Henry's plates.

"No."

Philip said nothing. She loaded the plates into the dishwasher, pausing when he cleared his throat.

"Yesterday when I dropped off Henry there was a car parked across the street." He didn't look at her. "Same one I used to make the buy in Philly. I noticed it again on the way in to work. Stayed a few lengths back on the parkway."

Elizabeth closed her eyes, not even trying to deny it. "I asked him to watch from a distance. Make sure they were safe." She stared out the window at the falling snow. "I had to know if we were still being followed."

Philip snorted, the words dripping with disdain. "And you had him tail _me_?"

Not flinching, she met his eyes.

"I needed someone I could trust."

His nostrils flared, the angle of his mouth wounded and furious. Not responding for a moment, he gripped the coffee mug.

"Yeah, well, he's being real professional about it. Tell him to back off. The last thing we need is Stan Beeman noticing something's up."

Folding a dishtowel, Elizabeth was careful not to react. She forced her breathing to slow, smoothing her expression before turning.

"We're meeting later." She said it casually, enjoying the brief flash of anger in his eyes as she turned for the door. "I'll pass it along."

* * *

Somewhere between hell and sleep there was a baby crying. Elizabeth rubbed her eyes, vision blurry, figuring out when she tried to move that Philip's butt had invaded her side of the bed and shoved itself against her hip. Still groggy, she rolled over, accidentally elbowing him in the process.

"I'll go." Half-asleep, he mumbled it, head buried under a pillow.

Elizabeth pushed her hair back and staggered drunkenly towards the door. "Just get her bottle ready."

She glanced at the clock more out of habit than necessity, able to tell from the buzzing ache in her head it had barely been an hour, two at most, since they'd put Paige down for a nap. Rubbing her face one last time, she crept into the nursery and bent over the crib to pick her up.

"Shh-shh."

She whispered it, bouncing her gently as she carried her over to the table to change her diaper. After two months, she could've done it blindfolded. Hands moving mechanically, she got her cleaned up and fixed the snaps on her sleeper.

No longer crying, Paige stared up at her, one tiny hand batting harmlessly against the back of her wrist while she worked. Lifting her, Elizabeth pressed a kiss to the sweet scented skin of her cheek, bouncing her slowly towards the rocking chair as Philip shuffled through the doorway with her bottle. He scratched his head, eyes bleary from lack of sleep and hair sticking out in every direction.

Yawning, he tested a few drops on the inside of his wrist and licked it clean. "Did she poop?"

She took the bottle from him and shook her head.

"Not yet."

Philip stroked the top of Paige's head and bent down to tickle her tummy. She gurgled happily, hand knocking against his nose.

"You want me to feed her?"

"Yeah." She waited for him to drape a clean cloth over one shoulder before passing him Paige. "It's almost four. I'll check the shortwave."

He didn't argue. Ever so carefully, she removed a painting from the wall in their bedroom, setting it on the ground before retrieving the radio and one-time pad from the compartment behind it. Laying everything out on the bed, she dug in her nightstand for a piece of blank paper and tucked the earpiece in one ear, waiting for the numerical sequence that would signal the start of the message.

The encryption key swam in front of her eyes. Blinking, she took a breath to clear her head. They'd spent the first weeks after bringing Paige home from the hospital crabby and exhausted, life having come to revolve around endless feedings, laundry and diaper changes, topics of conversation limited to what had gone into the baby and what had come out. Demoted from the most necessary and critical of tasks to mind-numbing drudgery fit for a _babushka_, it was a demoralizing blow, Philip's constant reminders what she was doing was just as important as the contacts he was working or the weapons buy he'd arranged south of town serving only to needle resentment.

For close to a month Paige slept only while being held, shrieking indignantly the moment either of them dared lay her in her crib. Desperate and close to losing her mind, she'd tried wrapping her tight as a bug in a cocoon, pushing her around the living room in her carriage when the weather was bad, even situating her on top of the humming washing machine just to rest her arms for a few minutes. Everyone wandering the house in a perpetual fog, she'd hadn't even blinked upon finding a box of Cheerios in the refrigerator one morning, uncertain whether she or Philip was to blame.

_"Damn it." _

Shaking her head, she bent over the scratch paper, catching the end of the signal sequence just in time. She steadied her pencil, copying down the code in swift, neat strokes. Philip came in as the final numbers were read. Nodding at her, he lowered his fly.

"She finished the bottle." He yawned and flopped on the bed, tossing his jeans on the chair. "What's it say?"

"I'm still working on it." Glancing over when he rolled on his side, she frowned. "You're going back to _sleep_?"

He sighed and didn't answer. Huffing quietly, she set her jaw. Finally he rolled over.

"What is it that you want me to-?"

She wouldn't look at him. "Nothing."

He ran a hand through his hair.

_"What?"_

Still struggling to keep the numbers straight in her head, Elizabeth set the pencil down and pushed her hair back. "We're almost out of formula. The laundry isn't done. The bathroom needs cleaned-"

"We can stop at the store tonight." Yawning again, Philip rubbed his face and stared at the ceiling. "And the bathroom isn't _that_ bad-"

She gave him an incredulous look. He got up to put his jeans on and grabbed the laundry basket. She returned to the message, managing to get only the first four numbers subtracted before pausing to rub her eyes.

"Make sure you don't dry my sweater."

He didn't answer. Waiting a moment, she tapped the pencil on the bed.

"It has to be laid out."

"I know." Not turning from the basket, he held up one of her bras by the strap as if he were afraid it or she might bite him for asking. "What about this?"

She closed her eyes. "Hang that on the rack."

He finished emptying the hampers and left her alone in the room, letting out a quiet fart once he reached the stairs. Forcing herself to concentrate, Elizabeth turned back to the page in her lap. She was better at decoding than he was, faster at the math. It had been her favorite subject in school from the time she was a girl, her mother more than once remarking she'd taken after her Uncle Anatoly.

Finishing with the message, she tore off the page to burn and put the shortwave away. Philip's voice carried down the hall from Paige's room, his attempt to croon pop songs from the radio embarrassingly off-key. Rolling her eyes, she peeked through the door, reluctantly smiling at the sight of them in the rocking chair.

"Is she getting sleepy?"

She whispered it, bending closer to stroke the top of Paige's head. Her hair was still wispy and fine, so little of it there was no use for the soft plastic brush with small pink flowers she'd picked up at the drugstore. Paige yawned, lips forming into a tiny pout.

"Yeah." Philip kissed her forehead one final time and laid her gently in the crib, looking down with an adoring smile.

"She isn't too hot, is she?" Frowning, Elizabeth bent closer to adjust the blankets. "Did you feel her tummy?"

"It's fine." He glanced at her. "What did the message say?"

"We're on for tonight. They left the last two rifles in a car outside Fairfax. I've got the address." Brow furrowed, she checked Paige's stomach for herself, gently palpating through the warm cotton sleeper. Not satisfied, she shot him a look. "I'm worried."

"I know." Hands coming to rest lightly on her arms, he leaned over her shoulder to watch Paige drift off to sleep. "But the doctor said as long as her belly was soft and she didn't seem sick to just wait it out."

"It's been _a week_," Elizabeth whispered, shaking her head. "Why won't she just . . . go?"

Clearly as weary of discussing poop as she was, Philip took a breath. "She's fine."

His hands slid along her arms, lips finding an inch of bare skin at the edge of her collar. Stomach churning, Elizabeth closed her eyes and didn't react, silently counting back the months.

He hadn't pushed, tensions between them slowly easing, juggling the competing projects of Paige and spy work leaving less time to fight. Obviously horny, Philip sighed against her neck, kisses growing hot and sloppy. His fingers shook as they glided past her belt, the hitch in his breath suggesting he was picturing what she might do if he tried unbuckling it.

_It couldn't be put off forever. _

Reluctant to return to the previous state of things, Elizabeth stepped away from Paige's crib and switched off the lamp. He followed a few steps behind as she returned to the bedroom, waited until she slid out of her sweater and began unbuttoning her dress to pull off his shirt. Wishing the room wasn't so bright, she got into bed and opened her knees, averting her gaze before he could tell her for the thousandth time since giving birth how beautiful she looked. Voice dripping with a valiant effort at sincerity, she always heard the same thing in the compliments he'd never bothered quite so doggedly with before, that remnants of the weight still lingered at her hips, her stomach no longer as firm and flat as it once was.

Her eyes shot open at the light tug on her ankle, the sight of him kneeling next to the bed wearing only a sly smile leaving no doubt what he intended to do to her. Her cheeks flamed a horrible, mortifying pink, a reaction she had no trouble picturing him enjoying as an uncharacteristic burst of shyness. The thought humiliating her all the more, she jerked her foot back.

"No, I don't . . . let's just . . ."

Trailing off, she covered her mouth, refusing either to look at him or budge. Finally he exhaled and shook his head, climbing on top of her as he'd done every other time before.

"Sorry."

She lifted her chin, forcing herself not to react as his hands began to slowly outline the bare length of her thighs.

* * *

She picked a seat next to the window, a lumpy jacket, dark sunglasses and an old ball cap of Philip's sufficient to make sure no one would give her a second glance, admiring or otherwise. He got on at the U-Street station, peering over one shoulder like she'd once taught him before boarding. She stayed facing the window once the train started moving. Sliding into the seat in front of her, he turned sideways to prop his arm at an angle.

"Well?" She said it quietly, not meeting his eyes.

Ignoring the question, Gregory studied her face. "How you been?"

Elizabeth looked away. "I get off in two stops."

Making a casual check of the car, he got up and moved to the seat beside her. She swallowed, but didn't react. Stretching out, he leaned closer and draped an arm across the back of her chair.

"Been almost two weeks now. Nothing so far."

"Good." She kept her tone neutral.

He stroked the edge of her shoulder, persisting even when she wouldn't look at him. "Anything for you. You know that."

Rubbing her lip, she nodded. "You can back off now. Keep your distance."

He laughed under his breath. Frowning, she turned. Gregory stretched his neck lazily towards the opposite window, the expression that wasn't quite a smirk nonetheless decidedly smug.

"He saw, huh?"

Elizabeth could only stare, barely remembering to keep her voice down.

"You did it on purpose?" She hissed it, venom lacing every word. "You think this is funny? Some sort of pissing contest? Do you have any idea the danger we're in?"

Any hint of satisfaction faded from his face. He leaned closer, breath warming her ear. "Hey . . . Elizabeth."

His tone was low, throaty, the way he'd once murmured her name as they lay together in bed. She set her jaw, wanting to punch him in the head. He reached around her, softly rubbing her arms. Inwardly cringing, she frowned.

"Stop."

She whispered it without meeting his eyes, knowing she'd made a mistake when he grunted and leaned back in the seat. Swallowing, she didn't look up. It was a balancing act, the relationship they'd once had the only currency with which she had left to barter.

Gregory shook his head, finally speaking. "Elizabeth, what's going on?"

She didn't answer.

"Whatever it is, you had to come to me, not him." The attempt to apply pressure not veiled in the least, he bumped his fist on the the seat, voice bitter. "Just like always."

She looked him straight in the eye, not flinching.

"This is my stop."

Laughing humorlessly, he slid out of the seat and allowed her to pass. She pulled her cap down, making a quick check of the compartment. Gregory's voice was low behind her.

"He doesn't understand you. Never has."

Not looking back, Elizabeth stuffed both hands in her pockets and climbed off the train.

It was late by the time she got home, the house quiet. Dropping her keys and purse on the counter, she rubbed her face and went to the cabinet for the bottle of gin. Philip was in the bedroom when she went upstairs, suitcase out on the bed. He glanced at her, continuing with his packing without a word.

She sank onto the bed to take off her boots. Head aching, she dropped them next to the chair.

"It's been ten days and nothing." Keeping her voice carefully neutral, she let her shoulders droop. "Maybe they got the message we're not the ones they need to be worried about."

Philip didn't answer.

Pausing, she took a breath. "I told him to back off."

Digging a gray sweatshirt and pants out of his closet, Philip turned to her. "Have you seen my flannel shirt?"

"It's still in the laundry." She looked down. "What'd she say?"

"They want you to make contact with a potential agent, try to recruit him." His tone was all business, no hint of emotion breaking through. "Sanford Prince. They had Dorwin approach him a few months ago, right when things started going south with his wife."

Elizabeth nodded, glancing over one shoulder. "They gave you an address?"

"Yeah." He pulled out underwear and two pairs of socks.

"Where are they sending you?"

Philip didn't look up. "New York. Mission to discredit Bielawski."

She set her watch on the nightstand. "The Polish opposition guy?"

"Yeah. They're worried he's gaining too much support in the Reagan administration. They want me there tomorrow afternoon. Use the TAA convention as cover."

She pulled off her sweater and shook it out. "Just the one night?"

"Yeah." Philip paused, something in his voice changing. "I'm . . . supposed to make contact with Irina . . . team up with her for this one."

For a moment Elizabeth stopped breathing. Uncertain she'd heard correctly, she blinked, struggling to form coherent thoughts through the thick fog that had plagued her since the night they'd gotten back.

"What?" Closing her eyes, she shook her head. "Irina." She stuttered, tripping over it like a foreign word. "Your-"

"Yeah."

Something raw and ugly churned deep in the pit of her stomach, her throat growing tight, breathing suddenly a task requiring concentration. She stared at the chair in the corner, unable to form words, listening to him smoothing shirts and folding slacks as her chest threatened to explode.

"Why _her_?"

The question came out harsher than she'd intended him to hear, a strange viciousness tinging the end of it. Philip grunted, leaning over her to grab a book off his nightstand. She risked a look at his face and instantly regretted it, something in the absent, faraway glassiness of his eyes only infuriating her more.

"I don't know." Not bothering to look at her, he tossed the book on top of his clothes. "Probably because of Bielawski they want someone who can speak Polish. She has a grandmother from-"

Elizabeth shook her head in disgust, lip curling. "And it just _had_ to be her."

"They're orders."

Voice having long since lost patience, now it took on a note of indifference slightly too neat, the argument she'd spent fifteen years wielding clearly bringing him private satisfaction finally to use. He shut the suitcase. Elizabeth grunted, staring blankly ahead.

"But you're not sorry."

The accusation hung in the air between them, all but baiting a fight. He stared back at her.

"I'm not _sorry_?" Expression incredulous, he slowly came around the bed towards her. "And what _exactly_ would _I_ be sorry for?"

She rose to meet him, feet firmly planted and hands balling into fists at her side, recognizing only when his face went blank with shock that she must've looked prepared to hurl him into a stack of mats. He stopped at the edge of the rug, staring at her as if she'd lost her mind. Going back to the closet, he grabbed the pillow and blanket off the top shelf. Elizabeth lifted her chin.

"You should pack your gray suit."

He paused at the door. Voice once again steady, she met his eyes.

"She'll love seeing you in it."

He shook his head. Waiting until he was gone, she closed the door, the hollow cavity in her chest large enough to crush her heart into a tiny ball. Squeezing into the corner of the room, she slid to the floor and curled her knees to her chest, pressing both hands over her face.

The bathroom door all but slammed out in the hallway, the sound of the hot water being yanked on coming a second later. She let her head thump against the wall, harboring no illusions what it meant when he took hot showers right before bed. Suffocating in a sudden wave of jealousy, she swallowed, afraid to ask which one of them he would picture while he did it.

Her nose began to burn. She squinted her eyes shut and angrily wiped away the tear that slipped down her cheek, not wanting to think about the history they shared but unable to push it from her mind.

It was something she hadn't known how much she needed. Talking about it. Allowing a small deviation from orders to reveal to each other details of their Russian pasts. At first it was little things, quiet conversations holding hands in their bedroom as tentative offerings were traded back and forth, the act of doing so still foreign enough to make her nervous. His cheek close to hers, they'd edged closer each night until a second pillow became unnecessary, the quiet intimacy of it warming her with every soft brush of his breath on her cheek. And then later it was whispers exchanged as she lay, luxuriously relaxed, in his arms, cheek pillowed on the warm skin of his shoulder, the floodgates bursting as she twirled fingers through the dark, curly hair scattered over his chest and recalled all the things she'd missed about home.

The foods they couldn't have . . . spicy, sour soups with cabbage and fish, and fat pancakes spread with cold sour cream, too risky for her to cook even in the privacy of their own kitchen. The way the river in Smolensk looked on a clear, cold fall day, the air so crisp and clean it took her breath away, rolling fields stretching off into the horizon as the trees on its banks rose tall and proud towards the sky in a symphony of yellow and orange. She'd whispered fading recollections of Moscow in the late spring, after the slush had melted and the mud was cleared from the roads, the faint, new green budding on slender saplings washing away the desolate gray of winter.

Philip listened, just allowed her to talk. Staring into her eyes as she spoke as if all he ever wanted to do was hear the sound of her voice, he let her whisper to him the things she'd longed for years to share, the tenderness of fingers cradling hers a silent confirmation he knew how badly she'd needed someone to hear what the home they hadn't seen in fifteen years had meant to her, him, the only person who could ever truly understand.

Not until later did she note how sparsely he'd filled in the picture of his own life, the few details offered never quite managing to illustrate the whole. She knew his name had been Mikhail. That he'd grown up with next to nothing, much like her. That he'd been selected for training at just a little older than her, a talent for languages noticed at one of the schools, the one relationship he'd had ended on its own volition years before they met. Only after a cold silence had descended between them again did she realize she couldn't have filled a single page with what she knew of his life before, resentment burning at the suspicion _she_ wouldn't have said the same.

The following morning was no better. Staying upstairs until it was time to leave, Philip let her deal with the kids' bickering and complaints over being forced to watch the news, the sight of Andrzej Bielawski arriving in New York only serving to pull the knots in her stomach tighter. Little was said on the way to school, Henry dropped off first, and then Paige, all attempts at civility falling the second the kids climbed out of the car.

She pulled into the train station and put the car in park, waiting a beat to shut off the engine. After a minute of stony silence, Philip tilted his head, not quite looking at her.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Head pounding after yet another sleepless night, Elizabeth closed her eyes. There was an insincerity to the question that couldn't be ignored, its intended purpose not to offer concession but to suggest she might make one of her own. She swallowed, cold anger settling in her chest.

"Talk about what? The fact that our own people tortured us because they don't trust us or that we don't trust each other?"

Philip looked down, voice low. "I'm trying to open up about-"

_"What?"_ Turning on him, she glared. "You're trying to _what?"_

He stared at her, forehead lined, mouth slightly open. She could barely breathe, incensed at the sight of the dark blue sweater she'd picked out for his birthday the year before, the one she'd held to his chest after the cake and wrapping paper had been cleaned up, allowing a small smile as she told him the color brought out his eyes. It hadn't passed her notice that he'd worn it practically once a week after that, smiles forming with little encouragement, jokes more numerous, hands finding their way to her waist whether it happened to be Saturday or not. She set her jaw, anger boiling out of control.

Exhaling in obvious annoyance, Philip shook his head. "I'll be at the Carnegie Hotel."

"Yeah. Have a good time." She sneered it, not looking at him.

"It's a mission. Not a getaway." His voice was cold, dead. "The Centre gives orders, not explanations."

She grunted, upper lip starting to tremble. "You're _so_ sorry to go."

Taking a moment to compose himself, Philip turned her way, brow furrowed. "I haven't seen her in twenty years."

There was something in the way he said it that turned her stomach inside out, the statement tinged with a dangerous mixture of nostalgia, longing and nervousness she felt certain he didn't want her to notice. Closing her eyes, she drew a breath, leaning over as he climbed from the car.

"Do you have everything that you-?"

He slammed the door before she could finish, stalking into the train station without a backwards glance.

* * *

"Okay, up here, turn left."

Snapping off the flashlight, Elizabeth folded the map and scanned to make sure their back was clear. The van lumbered onto an old dirt road, Philip slowing as the terrain got bumpy.

"There's a good spot half a mile in, just past where the road bends."

She nodded, checking her watch for easily the tenth time since they'd left. "We're already behind schedule. Let's hurry and get this done."

He snorted, tone taking on a dry note of sarcasm. "We've got enough explosives in back to blow a crater twenty feet deep in the road. How fast do you _really_ want me taking the corners?"

Glaring across the front seat, she stuffed the map in the duffel bag. Philip sighed when she didn't answer.

"She's _fine_."

Elizabeth frowned. "I _know_ that." Pausing, she looked down. "I don't like having that girl in our house. Who knows what she could be-"

"We made sure everything was secure." He slowed again as the road curved. "And you're the one who insisted we get a sitter. It's not like I couldn't have dug a hole by myself."

Elizabeth propped an elbow on the window. "Like you said you were going to dig those holes in the backyard for my rosebushes?"

Ignoring her, he pulled the van off the road and set the brake. Reaching behind the seat for the duffel, he stuck the keys in his pocket.

"You ready?"

She pulled open the heavy side door and got a grip on one of the crate's rope handles. Philip grabbed the other end, closing the door behind them. Grunting under the weight, she helped him lug it up the hill, pausing at the top to point over to a huge fallen tree by a small clearing.

"Right there." Jerking her chin towards the spot, she lurched forward, the crate swaying unsteadily between them. Elizabeth smoothed a stray wisp of hair, breathing a little heavy.

"You okay?"

Frowning at him, she shook her head. "Fine. Let's get the other two and move the van."

It was nearly ten by the time they finished digging and got the weapons packed, owls hooting quietly over the sound of the highway in the distance.

Philip turned over one shoulder. "Can you keep the flashlight still?"

Ignoring his tone, she moved it back into place, watching as he finished rigging explosives to the crate's lid. She held her breath as he started to connect the final wires.

"Careful."

He cursed and lowered his head. "You wanna do it?"

She didn't answer, both of them knowing he had the steadier hands. He set the detonator and closed the lid, nodding towards her to pass him the heavy plastic tarp.

"Green wire disarms it."

They finished burying the crates in silence, scattering leaves and a fallen branch over the site once they were through. Elizabeth grabbed the shovels and started towards the van, nearly losing her balance when her boot slid on a patch of wet leaves. Philip caught her arm.

"You okay?"

She shook him off. "Fine. Let's go."

Making the hike to the van, she got in back, tossing her gloves in the duffel and pulling the dirty sweatshirt over her head. Philip climbed in front while she got cleaned up, eyes on the road.

"I'm starving. You wanna stop somewhere and grab a burger?"

She finished buttoning her blouse. "We should just go straight home . . . tell her we left the concert early . . ."

Trailing off, she stuffed the dirty clothes in the bag, hating the unsettling feeling that had lingered since the moment they'd pulled away from the house, Paige's plump, clumsy arms reaching for her every time she closed her eyes. Philip studied her face in the mirror. Waiting for her to climb in front beside him, he started the van and pulled out onto the road.

"I can get changed while you run in to grab the stuff we need."

Relieved, she nodded. They stopped at a Safeway halfway back to the city for diapers and formula. Heading across the parking lot to the van, she made a quick glance around, frowning slightly when she met Philip's eyes. He leaned over to open her door, taking the grocery bag and setting it behind the seat.

"News report on the radio." His voice was low. "Johnson gave a television address earlier this evening, pledged to stop the bombing raids over North Vietnam. He's calling for peace talks."

"Really," she breathed, staring out the window. "You think he's serious?"

"That's not all." Philip scanned the parking lot. "He announced he won't be seeking reelection."

She absorbed the information in silence. "He knows they're turning against him. Who knows what might happen now. Philip, this could be-"

"Maybe." He shook his head. "I'll drop a message in the park on the way in tomorrow, let them know we got the first cache buried and ask for orders."

She started the van. "If Gabriel wants to meet, I'll take it."

Philip turned to stare at her in the dark. "What about Paige? You can't seriously be thinking about bringing her al-"

"And you can't come home and watch her for a few hours?" she shot back.

He fell silent, the hum of cars passing only serving to make her angrier.

"All I do is change diapers." She exhaled. "And laundry. And put her to bed and get her up again to feed her."

Philip closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat. "And you think this has been easy on me? Running the travel agency without you there?"

She didn't answer.

He propped an elbow on the window. "I'll come home early tomorrow. Trade off with you."

She shifted her grip on the steering wheel and stole a wary look at his profile. Mouth slack with exhaustion, the faint lines at his eyes were new, the stress of it clearly getting to him as much as it had her. Some of the anger dissipating, she reached behind the seat for the grocery bag.

"I got you a candy bar at the register."

"Really?"

She tossed him the Mars bar. Not bothering to thank her, Philip tore the wrapper and wolfed half of it down.

"Want a bite?"

Wrinkling her nose, she shook her head. He chewed in silence, finally swallowing.

"We'll get the hang of this."

She glanced his way, but didn't answer, their eyes meeting for a second before she pulled onto the exit ramp.

* * *

"Can we call Dad later?"

Bent over Henry's shoulder to check his math homework, Elizabeth closed her eyes, the question catching her off-guard. She forced a smile when he craned to look up at her.

"He's going to be busy with clients this evening." Smoothing his hair, she leaned forward to tap his math book. "Probably out late. He'll be home tomorrow."

Nodding glumly, Henry propped an elbow on his desk and scrubbed his eraser over one of the answers she'd circled. She straightened his collar.

"Finish up and then get started on social studies. I need to run an errand and then we're having dinner at the Beeman's."

"What's for dessert?"

Henry turned in his chair and hooked an arm over the back, the hopeful angle of his mouth enough like Philip's to stir a pang of longing in her gut. She looked down.

"If you promise to get all this finished by the time I get home, I'll pick out something chocolate."

Flashing her a grin, Henry spun around to his math, for the first time that afternoon, working at a pace that might've been called industrious. Elizabeth stepped next door to Paige's room and rapped on the jamb. Paige glanced up from her composition book.

"What time are we going over?"

A pile of clothes was strewn over the bed. Brow furrowed, Elizabeth leaned against the door, the poorly concealed eagerness in her voice hitting hard in a sore spot.

"In an hour or two after everyone's done with homework." She stepped back. "I have to run out for a bit. Keep an eye on your brother."

Paige shrugged and turned to her desk.

"Fine."

Shaking her head, Elizabeth headed downstairs. Her coat and purse were still lying on the counter, a bag of Cheetos Henry had gotten out for a snack left open next to his comic book. Twisting the bag closed, she snapped on a rubber band and reached up to stick it in the cabinet.

It was as her gaze came to rest on the empty space in the middle of the shelf that a sickening mixture of loneliness and longing washed through her. Bowing her head, she leaned on the counter for support, Philip's face swimming before her eyes. Arms warm around her and lips soft at the shell of her ear, there was a mischievousness in his voice that never failed to draw her smile as he cuddled closer to ask if she liked the necklace.

Her throat tightened. Eyes starting to burn, Elizabeth lifted her chin. Stung he'd dared use their newfound relationship as a weapon to manipulate her, she'd parried hard, thrusting the box into his hand as if it was the last thing she ever wanted to keep. The look of hollow defeat in his eyes as he accepted it haunted her, the coldness that later ensued confirming she'd not only won but succeeded in crushing any happiness he'd come to find in the idea of _them_ just as surely as he had for her.

Wiping her cheeks, she snatched her coat and the car keys. She picked a spot on the street, glaring at the sight of their handler propped like a shapeless stewed tomato on the park bench. Not caring she was late, she set her jaw and pushed open the door.

She crossed the distance in deliberate steps, taking a seat without bothering to look at her. Claudia cut straight to the point.

"You think I owe you an apology."

Elizabeth didn't flinch, voice hard. "I think you owe me _more_ than an apology."

"We had to find the mole. You know the drill." Claudia paused as a couple walked by. "I was following orders, _dear_, the same as you." She fiddled with her gloves. "Nevertheless, I'm sorry."

She brushed back a stray piece of hair and took off her glasses. Elizabeth turned to face her. Bruises darkened one temple and the opposite eye, scabbed-over cuts barely starting to heal. For the first time in weeks, something close to triumph surged strong in her veins, the unsettling blanket of vulnerability that had left her shaken since the moment she was overpowered alone in the house falling from her shoulders as she stared her straight in the eye.

"I'm sorry I didn't kill you. That's my apology."

Claudia didn't flinch. For a second, she almost smiled, the expression anything but humorous. "Better luck next time."

Elizabeth turned away after she did, shaking her head in disgust. She was an empty shell, the warrior who'd once existed turned into a pathetic pigeon contented to preen herself and carry messages back and forth, sowing the seeds of doubt that had caused the Centre to question their loyalty.

Claudia slid her glasses on, an arrogant lift to her chin making her all the more laughable. "I'd hate to see you throw yourself in front of a train, Nadezhda. Bad things happen not only in literature."

Elizabeth grunted, not missing the way she couldn't even pronounce her name any more, the syllables tripping like a cheap lesson in foreign language by cassette tape off her clumsy, spoiled tongue.

"Is that a threat?"

"Only if you're serious about killing me, Nadezhda."

Elizabeth closed her eyes. "Don't call me that."

"It upsets you?"

The answer came a touch too quickly, the grasping attempt to find an angle to manipulate pitifully amateur. Elizabeth looked down, finding it incomprehensible that she'd ever been trusted with such a critical assignment at all.

"It confuses me." She said it emotionlessly, turning to face her. "I like to keep my wits when I'm handling snakes."

Claudia laughed outright, looking more like an old, deflated sack than ever. She pushed her sunglasses higher up her nose. "Very well, Elizabeth."

Extricating herself from any further attempts at theatre, she stalked away from the bench the second their business was through. Managing to keep her anger in check until she reached the car, once inside she gripped the steering wheel hard enough to turn her knuckles white, now certain she was the one who'd authorized the pictures.

She'd made Philip take the kids out of the house the following day, torn it apart bottom to top searching for cameras and sweeping for bugs, knowing she wouldn't find anything, that someone had already been sent to remove them. Some of the photographs had been ripped from the albums they kept, others snapped at a distance, the ones taken in their living room while Paige and Henry sat watching TV making her skin crawl.

She held no illusions the Centre could keep them under constant surveillance, the risk their cover would be blown by such measures a costly gamble even before an FBI agent had moved in across the street. It was enough to know they were being monitored from a distance, that even if it wasn't that day or that week, they could never know a moment's peace, forced to comb the house in a paranoid frenzy every time they left it or live with the constant fear they were being watched. They wouldn't be able to smile or laugh at breakfast without their motives falling under suspicion, unable to let their guard down even when they crawled under the covers to sleep at night.

_Watched like traitors after everything they'd done._

She hadn't flinched the day she swore to give it all up, to leave Russia and come to the United States, eat their food and deny herself even a taste of the _ukha_ and _oladushki_ she'd so missed. Instead she walked their streets and ate their greasy cheeseburgers and fries, having banal conversations with the flighty women in Paige's playgroup by day and sucking foul-tasting dicks by night, to whisper her own name even in the privacy of her bedroom an act of heresy. She'd played married to a man who was a stranger, lying with her legs apart while he impregnated her with one child, and then a second. Promising to raise them to be perfect, damned capitalists in a soulless place, she was forbidden from sharing with them anything she held dear, the cause in whose service she'd sacrificed every last freedom the very thing they were taught in school to revile.

She'd followed orders, sworn to Gregory they'd never matter to her, that they wouldn't change the lengths she was willing to go to, a promise easier to believe when Paige had been an annoying kick in her bladder, a parasite of Philip's she was forced to bear in her ugly, distended stomach rather than the soft, chubby baby who smelled of milk and talcum powder or the toddler whose back she'd lovingly rubbed at naptime, the little girl who'd perched on a stool alongside her in the kitchen making cookies out of Play-Doh or the thirteen-year-old who'd pulled her aside, cheeks pink and eyes down to tell her she'd started her period.

And then once despite everything she grew to fiercely love the children who were only ever supposed to complete the ruse, they'd been turned into a weapon to be used against her. Their pictures were callously papered across her cell in nothing short of a taunt, a silent reminder they could be ripped away at any time and used as pawns to extract whatever the Centre wanted from her and Philip. As if that had been their plan all along.

Seething, Elizabeth started the car, no longer harboring any doubt who had carefully manipulated the pieces into place. Who'd set them up to take the fall for the leaked encryption codes, envious of the success she'd never known and corrupted by power, ideals easily abandoned in the name of personal greed. Zhukov would've never authorized such a thing, would be livid when he learned of it. Someone higher up had been swayed, Claudia's efforts to force them under her thick, pasty thumb casting doubt despite their decade and a half of faithful service. Less of a threat apart, she'd pitted them against one another, sending Philip to New York in the aftermath just to goad her.

_Philip._

Elizabeth shook her head, barely seeing the snowy road in front of her. Philip, who she'd once been convinced they couldn't trust. Who'd enjoyed the comforts of their assignment far too much, quick to rush out and purchase himself a pair of American blue jeans, ordering a Coca-Cola and an extra side of fries whenever they stopped in a restaurant for lunch like he'd just stepped out of a commercial for their soft, spoiled decadence. Philip, who hadn't hesitated to back her up when she'd shoved Claudia's head underwater and beat her bloody, their partnership having long surpassed the need to agree or even understand, an allegiance deeper than any oath could've bound them unquestionably proven.

Philip, who she'd reported on, sending messages through Gabriel warning he was getting in too deep. Jokes had begun straying too close to the mark, the casual challenging of orders becoming harder to ignore. Coupled with a suspicious fondness for cheap beer and Sunday evening cookouts in their backyard, even at home he'd begun to look and act like one of them. Philip, who hadn't flinched under torture, refusing to give them anything, whose only breaking point had come months before in the moment he believed their family to be in danger. Not at the threat of pain nor the promise of having his head held underwater until he convulsed and vomited, nothing mattering to him but her, Henry and Paige.

Pulling into the parking lot, Elizabeth shut off the engine and closed her eyes.

_"You get nothing from us. She's trained for this. So am I."_

He hadn't tried to talk about it and hadn't needed to. Jerking awake beside her at night, breathing tight and panicked, she knew it was the bucket he was remembering, their days in training not distant enough to forget the sensation of being held down while water filled her throat and nose, struggling in vain as she was methodically drowned by one of their instructors.

The pain agonizing, it was the sheer terror of it that followed her for weeks after, of being forced down, the knowledge it was only a drill ceasing to matter after the first seconds when panic set in. Her hands and feet tied, they pushed her under so many times she lost count, stars appearing before her eyes as her body went weak, hope leaving her, limbs ceasing to obey. Only then did they pull her up, allowing her to suck gasping breaths only long enough to recognize what was coming, to have her head forced down again just after she exhaled in the hopes she'd draw a cruel first mouthful of water.

Rubbing her face, Elizabeth leaned back in the seat, haunted by the pain in his eyes. Philip, who she'd come to depend on in a way she could no one else, secure in the knowledge there was no force, no person, no thing and no ideal he held dearer than their family. That he wouldn't hesitate to defend them with every last ounce of strength in his body, and at any cost to himself.

Philip, who she'd stopped reporting on, even before Timoshev, reluctantly acknowledging that somewhere along the way, and despite her best intentions, things between them had gotten personal. It was the last thing she would've called love, what she felt for him more often outright annoyance. But he was the one who anchored Paige's other hand as she gleefully hopped over puddles in bright, rubber boots on rainy days, the one who Henry cuddled up to at night, pushing their worn, red book of bedtime stories into his lap and listening in rapt wonder until his eyelids drooped. The one who could read her in the field without needing words, who went out at midnight when it was snowing to find an open drugstore that would have aspirin for her cramps, and who never failed to remember she liked her hotdogs burned and her beer extra cold.

Philip, who without even flinching, she'd begun to lie for. First to Zhukov and later in mission reports, a string of omissions and skirted truths leaving her ashamed to stand alongside the person she'd once been, uncertain of the one she'd become. That it meant something to her that he would defy orders on her behalf. That she'd come to count on it.

They'd sworn to choose country above self, the good of them all before the needs of one. And yet some tiny, selfish part of her clung tight to the knowledge that to him, she always came first, that there was nothing he wouldn't have done for her. That the loyalty they felt to each other could feel equal of that to their country, Nadezhda, who'd accepted orders to create the false life of Elizabeth Jennings, who'd stood before Zhukov and promised she'd die before failing her mission, staring him straight in the eye as she quietly passed along lies.

* * *

It hadn't taken long to learn to close doors quietly or risk the wrath of a woken baby. Slipping into the house, Elizabeth set her keys on the table and took off her shoes. She turned for the stairs, catching sight of Philip out in the backyard with the grill. Frowning upon noticing the laundry basket propped beside him on a lawn chair, she hurried over to the door.

He turned from the grill when she came out onto the patio, not missing the expression on her face.

"She's fine."

Giving him a dark look, Elizabeth picked up Paige and began gently bouncing her.

"You put her in the _laundry basket_?" she demanded, voice practically a hiss. "What the hell were you-?"

"We had a little incident upstairs." He shook his head, voice weary. "I had to open all the windows to air the place out and couldn't leave her in her crib alone."

She breathed in, suddenly understanding. "She pooped?"

Grunting, he rubbed his face and leaned against the patio table. "_While_ I was in the middle of changing her."

He folded his arms, rolling his eyes when her cheek twitched.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, cheeks hurting from the effort not to smile.

Philip laughed quietly and straightened up. "Yeah, well. It was a little too much like taking artillery fire." He stuck three hot dogs on the grill and closed the lid. "So how'd it go?"

"Fine." She paused for a moment, pushing her hair back. "You want a beer?"

His eyes flicked to hers. "Sure."

Giving him a pointed look, she carefully laid Paige in the laundry basket and smoothed her shirt, going to the refrigerator for two bottles. Returning, she edged through the door and pulled it closed.

"Have you seen the opener?"

Philip didn't turn from the hotdogs. "Maybe you left it in the refrigerator next to the Cheerios."

She laughed quietly and smiled. "That was _you_."

He turned and winked at her, setting the grilling fork aside. "Sure it was." He put his hand out for the beer.

Shaking her head, she passed him one. "_Don't_."

"What?"

"You know what." She narrowed her eyes.

He grinned and went over to the fence railing to knock the cap off. Trading with her, he opened the second one and took a long swallow, leaning against the table.

"Gabriel have any orders for us?"

Elizabeth sipped her beer and nodded. "Staffer at the defense department they think we can work. Drinking problem. Spends a lot of time at one of the bars over in Georgetown."

Philip didn't say anything for a minute, finally leaning over to flip the hotdogs. "You ready for that?"

"Actually, with this one they . . . seemed think you might have better luck." Shrugging, she rotated the bottle in her hands.

He didn't miss her meaning. Making a face, he muttered under his breath, "Great."

Taking two of the hotdogs off the grill, he stuck them in buns and closed the lid. Elizabeth reached down to stroke Paige's arm and glanced around the backyard, noticing the freshly dug line of holes along the fence. Staring at his back for a moment, she looked down when he turned her way.

"Things go any better at work today?"

He wrinkled his nose, coming over to sit in the chair next to Paige. "They're all right. It's been . . . an adjustment keeping things organized without you there." Pausing, he took another drink of his beer and met her eyes. "We'll figure it out, find a way to balance everything."

She nodded silently, squinting at the darkening sky as he rose to get her hotdog off the grill. "We should go through the rooms on the weekends, finish the soundproofing."

"Sure." Passing her a hotdog that was practically charcoal, he grabbed his plate and scooted into the next chair. He took a bite, mouth half full when he spoke. "I was thinking we could put in a wine cellar under the laundry room."

"You've got to be kidding." She frowned, tempted to laugh. "What on earth would we-"

"It could have other uses." He said it seriously, brow furrowed as he chewed.

Rolling her eyes at what she feared was only half a joke, she shot him a look and picked up her hotdog.

* * *

The evening crawled by at an excruciating pace. The kids in bed, Elizabeth straightened the living room and made a quick check of the bookshelves, rinsing out a sponge to give the kitchen counter the thorough scrubbing it'd needed for weeks. No less shaky by the time she was done, she pulled the last load of laundry from the dryer and snapped off the lights downstairs.

Their bedroom was empty, quiet, the house having never seemed more still. Reaching into the basket for one of Philip's shirts, Elizabeth shook it out and smoothed the tag, an ache forming in her chest when the scent of his cologne drifted towards her. Closing her eyes, she pressed her nose to the collar and inhaled.

She sank onto the bed. It seemed impossible how much she'd come in just a short time to crave the feeling of his lips on her skin, to fall asleep under the comforting weight of his arm, breath even and warm on the back of her neck. Lowering the shirt, she stared at it.

It had been different with Gregory. Their time together was brief, but enough, a fleeting chance to relish the spark that had been ignited and reaffirm a shared commitment to the struggle. His ideals in lockstep with hers, they fed off each other's passion, a lingering reminder that no matter how incessantly she and Philip might've fought or how slippery his grasp of loyalty, in him she had an ally. No more aware of what went on in her daily life than she could've guessed how he occupied himself when she was gone, she hadn't needed him to understand the act she put on as Elizabeth Jennings, only to take her away from the thankless monotony of raising a family that would never completely feel like hers, of pretending to care about travel arrangements or what kind of cookies to bake for Paige's preschool class as the world circled in a slow, decadent spiral towards hell.

The pressure was there early on, the casual suggestion she should leave sounding less like a joke every time he repeated it. That they should run off together, just the two of them, pushing her towards a place he knew she couldn't even consider, that she'd told him countless times would mean giving up everything she'd been sent there to do. She skirted his inquiries about the state of things at home, ignored attempts to poke around her feelings about Philip while reminding him it was only for her cover, their time together strained as the hints grew less veiled. Her sole form of escape, she'd wanted only to close her eyes for the few hours they could spare and return to the girl who'd known what she wanted, who hadn't been confused or mired in nagging complications. To feel invigorated as she had the first time they'd met, impassioned for the cause and reveling in the one private thing she'd ever taken for herself.

He made the move back to D.C. the summer Henry was four, rubbed her shoulders while dropping in the suggestion she'd be able to see him more. Not saying anything in response, she nodded silently, the pit forming in her stomach acknowledging years before she was ready to face it head on that things between them had already begun to change.

Life began to creep in, worries over a project Paige had to finish or Henry's constant battle with earaches making it harder to find the time to escape. Wary at the knowledge Philip would be incensed if he found out, she grew further cautious, unwilling to risk disrupting a partnership that had come to operate as fluidly as breathing, their results in the field unmatched by any other team on the East Coast. Her visits growing less frequent, it was easier not to talk or think about it, to push it out of her mind and try desperately to reclaim the feeling they used to share, what had once felt so right slowly fading away.

She'd missed him on occasion, thought fondly of the time they spent together. But after the first few years it no longer felt hard to go, to make the shift back to her regular life until the time came for them to be together again. Never like something had been ripped from her chest, leaving her wounded. Miserable. Unable to concentrate. The tension so unbearable she could've cried for a week and found no relief. Never had she imagined herself capable of missing someone in that way, nothing right, everything she did moving through the day affected by a sore ache.

Not until much later did she admit it no longer felt the same when she looked into his eyes. That she didn't want to pretend for another day or week that Paige and Henry meant nothing to her. That Elizabeth Jennings, the illusion she'd long despised, was the only mother they knew, her arms the ones they sought after skinned knees and nightmares, her neck the one that received soft, sleepy whispers as she gently rocked them to sleep. That nothing could ever feel real as long as they were objects she could abandon, what had once been a return to her deepest truth nothing but burying her head in a comfortable lie.

With every step they drifted further apart she found herself drawn to what had once seemed impossibly wrong, a man she'd been convinced she couldn't care for the only one who lived with the same guilt, bore the same fears for Henry and Paige, saw her at her best and her worst and still looked at her the same way over breakfast every morning, as quietly devoted to the girl he'd barely known as the woman she'd become. Somehow always understanding even when she couldn't find the words. Her partner in the most primal sense of the word. The only one with whom she felt whole.

Elizabeth closed her eyes. She'd stood before the party committee at seventeen and pledged to give it all up. Home. Family. Any sense of autonomy over her body. The weak, sentimental fantasy of standing before a man out of desire, much less love. She'd trusted no one on their say so, keeping friend and foe alike at arm's length, refusing any touch of softness or comfort that could weaken the soldier they were sending to fight behind enemy lines.

The rawness of _feeling_ was terrifying, the rush of shakiness when she pictured his face and what it made her want when she stared into his eyes unsettling in a way she'd fought against ever since the day she'd dragged herself from the cold floor of the training facility. Fingers clutched tight around the torn remnants of her pants, she crept to the shower room still shaking too hard to cry, wanting only to wash away any trace of what the captain had done to her. She lay in her bunk long after the lights went out, trying not to move for the pain, grasping desperately at the fast unraveling threads of her sanity as she sought some way to regain control. Knees curled to her chest, she held herself tightly until the tears froze on her cheeks, face growing still and numb as her breathing slowed, silently vowing never to allow anyone close enough to hurt her again.

Dropping Philip's shirt in the laundry basket, Elizabeth wiped her cheeks and crawled over to his side of the bed. They'd made love nowhere else since coming home from the hotel. On hers they cuddled, held hands, fingers and arms intertwining as he spooned her and teasingly tried to steal her socks, warm kisses pressed to her bare neck and shoulders a silent invitation to see if she would come to him. Wrapping both arms around his pillow, she inhaled the faint, salty scent of his hair.

_ She'd held back, protecting herself so tightly no one could get in, shying in the recesses of half-lives and half-truths, unwilling to risk fully giving anyone her heart._

Pushing off the bed, Elizabeth slipped into her nightgown, stomach miserably knotted, unable to keep from staring at the phone on the nightstand. She reached over to get it, curling into a ball as she fingered the receiver. Drawing the most difficult breath of her life, she closed her eyes and picked it up.

Her fingers trembled as she dialed the numbers, the unseen weight that had smashed her chest for days dissolving into a hollow void as it began to ring. Unable to hide from it any longer, she sank into the pillows and stared up at the ceiling, the truth solidifying in her heart with frightening clarity. What the idea of _them_ had come to mean to her and what she wanted it to be. To finally give herself, fully. Hiding nothing and holding nothing back.

"Hello?" His voice was rough, gravelly.

She swallowed, steadying herself. "Oh . . . did I wake you?"

There was a pause, then muffled noises in the background. He cleared his throat, the answer clumsy from sleep. "Are . . . are the kids okay?"

The question tugged at her heart, how many times they'd whispered it back and forth coming in late from dead drops and meets, the family they'd created together the one thing that had always united them. Elizabeth tucked an arm under her pillow.

"Yeah, yeah, no, they're, everyone's fine. We had dinner at the Beeman's. Stan never showed up. I . . . I think they're having some problems, you know, some personal problems."

He didn't say anything. Closing her eyes, she charged ahead before she could lose the nerve.

"I've been . . . I've been thinking about you." She twisted the phone cord around one finger, the truth leaving her utterly naked. "About us. I miss you."

The hardest thing she'd ever had to say, it was met by nothing but static, the receiver cold and dispassionate under her ear. Forcing back the lump in her throat, she took a breath, courage momentarily wavering.

"Are you there?"

She heard him breathing, as if in the moment before, he'd stopped. The answer was tight, voice so strained it barely sounded like him.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm still here."

Elizabeth swallowed, tears forming in her eyes. She forced the tension from her chest, almost whispering it.

"Come home."

Through the static, she heard him sigh, a second of brief shuffling in the background his only response before the line went dead.

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**Reviews are like good Russian caviar… with tortilla chips…**


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